The Broken Orrery
by CymbalinesHalo
Summary: Doomed to an existence that neither of them asked for, Aerith and Sephiroth struggle for survival in the bleak desolation of the Northern Crater. Epic and ongoing, rated M for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

He would wait for her, he decided, however long it took. Sephiroth knelt down by the fire and reached out his hands, flexing his long bony fingers in the fierce warmth. He glanced up again at the faintly ticking clock on the mantle. Its filigreed hands pointed at one and eleven. The last silver glint of the painted moon in the moondial slipped into the case as he watched. She had been gone a very long time now. Sephiroth closed his eyes, silently cursing himself. Why had he even allowed her to go out, alone, in the first place?

The lands around the Crater were still treacherous this time of year. He imagined her crumpled in the meager shelter of a snowdrift, blue with cold, her eyes glazing over as she slowly froze to death. All it would take would be one slip, one misstep. Of all the stupid, foolish things…he swore again to himself. He looked at the sooty bronze kettle hanging in the fire. The water in it gurgled and thumped, boiling heavily. He had evaporated off two pots of water already but what was one more? Two clay tea tumblers sat on the hearthstone, casting a pair of dark curving shadows. Sephiroth shifted uneasily within them, letting the velvet bands of shadow slide over his hands, his face. He looked up at the clock, down again. It was everything he could do not to mentally calculate what the windchill would be at this hour.

Sephiroth grasped one of the tumblers and dragged it back and forth over the hearth, grating the unglazed bottom of the vessel against the stone. It made a harsh sound that he liked, congruent with his agitation. One single minute more, he vowed, and he would go out into the winter night to search for her.

There was a working at the outer lock. Sephiroth snapped to his feet as soon as he heard it, and hurried across the wide expanse of the chamber and into the narrow entrance passageway that led toward the entrance. He made it just in time to see Aerith stiffly pushing the outer door, a massive slab of scarred wood, shut behind her. Her mittened hands went to the inside lock, gripped it. She set her feet in preparation for a vigorous shove.

"Let me do it," he said, stepping toward her.

She startled at the sound of his voice and clutched protectively at the large willow basket that was dangling on her arm, placing it before her like a shield. She twisted her body to put more space between them as he approached.

Aerith said nothing, only looked at him stonily from behind the cornflower folds of her winter cloak. Then she turned and jammed the lock closed. Melting snow clung to her like beads of glass, glittering in the dim light as she briskly moved past him.

"How was the weather?" he said, looking at her. It was a safe enough topic; perhaps it would even incite her to speak to him. He had not heard her voice, or any other human voice, for weeks. He busied himself with checking the heavy iron bolt, locking, relocking it, waiting to see if she would answer.

Aerith leaned her heavy wooden staff, the one she always carried with her when she went out, against the tottery driftwood table that was just inside the threshold. She pulled her mittens off, then placed her basket on top of the table and began to unpack it. Her hands moved in agitated bursts.

"The winds are quiet," she said at last. "It is clear, very cold. The stars are out, for once." Her voice sounded far away, as if she were speaking in a dream. Perhaps she was pretending it wasn't him she was speaking to, but just someone, anyone, else. "Baral has moved his caravan again, just a mile past the rim of the Crater," she said, "I bought a little food, some bread, dried fruit. There wasn't much to choose from, he must be getting ready to leave again. " Besides the customary packets and jars tied with the merchants' trademark red string there was an object wrapped in several layers of muslin and paper, a sphere as large as her fist.

Sephiroth had crept to the edge of the table, staying just within her peripheral vision. She had just spoken more words in the last three seconds than he usually heard from her in over a month. He studied her closely. Her behavior was strange, she seemed vaguely unsettled, nervous. Had something happened to her, at the merchants' camp, out in the night? He lightly touched the sphere, making the paper it was wrapped in crinkle.

"Is this a new materia?"

She answered without looking at him. "Hmm. I should be so lucky. It's incense resin. The air in here is always musty." The wretchedness in her voice, although closely held in check, was palpable.

"Is that why you were so late, you were bargaining for it?" He knew as well as she did that coming to a set price on anything but the most common item sometimes took hours while the merchant chattered on, pouring cup after cup of syrupy black tea.

Aerith buried deeper into the folds of her cloak. "No…it was a beautiful night, that's all."

"You could have been hurt."

"But I'm not." She looked at him fiercely for a second, then back at her unpacking. Although he couldn't see it, he knew that behind her cloak her jaw was set in an attitude of subtle, but definite, defiance. Before he had time to say more or to soften his prior words, she had brushed past him and was stepping down the passageway to the central space of their subterranean home. He watched her walk away, delicately, painfully; a softly swaying shadow backlit by the glow of the fire in the next room.

She should not have spoken to him, Aerith thought angrily to herself. Dignifying his existence with her words was more than he deserved. She pulled off her scarf and threw it over a bench by the fire and began to unbutton her cloak. The night had made her weak, that was all. The starlight had been so beautiful on the smooth velvet sweep of the snow, the sky above her vast and clear.

She closed her eyes for a moment, her heart wringing. How dearly she wanted to be a part of it again, to hear the mighty voice of the Planet resonating like a gentle earthquake in her bones, to feel the presence of her mother, guiding her. But now there was only silence, her internal landscape a void, her murderer her only company. She swallowed painfully against the lump in her throat. Of all things the silence was the worst. Sometimes it was all more than she could bear.

Aerith sighed. The walk back from the merchants had taken much more out of her than she had expected. Pain was chewing her alive now; it had been warning her all day, but she had not heeded it. She pushed one of the large padded armchairs a little closer to the fire and sat on it. Cringing as familiar pain burned her lungs, she pulled off her cloak and swept it open on the floor before the fire. Another fresh spray of agony crackled under her sternum and shot down her back like electric fire and she pressed her arms to her ribs, riding it out. Carefully, gingerly, clenching her teeth, she began to unlace her boots and one by one pulled them off. Exhausted and sick, she sat back in the chair and clenched a cushion to her belly. Her face was grim as she rocked, almost imperceptibly, back and forth.

Sephiroth watched her from the doorway, hidden in the shadows. She was hurting again, he knew. As far as he could tell it was something she always had within her, some days worse than others. She went to great lengths to conceal her pain from him and fiercely denied anything when he asked. Sometimes he would catch her, though, sometimes only read it in the intake of her breath or the way she held her body when she thought he wasn't looking.

He entered the room, remembering to make noise to let her know he was coming. He looked at her, just for a second, then ran his eyes over everything else in the space that remained. It was the sum total of everything they had gained over the last year, but even so, it wasn't much. The only furniture in the high cavernous space was a pair of dusty wingback armchairs with a spindly table between them, a velveteen ottoman that had most of the stuffing coming out, and a few low benches he had made from driftwood. In the corner closest to the fire there was a heap of tattered books that Aerith had bought, by the pound, from the merchant. A little gold ormolu clock, in an elaborate style that might seem at home in a baronet's country estate, kept its time on the mantle.

Next to the clock was the spent shell of an Earth Morph materia. The materias' power had been unstable to begin with; they had used what little remained to create their home. Now it was only a sphere of glassy rock, dark and lifeless. Aerith looked at it often, searching for a glimmer of light within it that meant its power was returning, but every day she looked and every day it was empty.

With its cavernous spaces and high arced ceilings, the odd string of stone chambers that they lived in had the desolate air of a once great manor house, all its treasures stripped and looted, the bare shell now inhabited by squatters. The dark smell of damp stone and mold remained year round, and nothing, not even the hottest of fires dispelled it for very long.

Even so, it was infinitely better than it had been in the early days, when they had had nothing. They had been grateful for a dry place to sleep, then, any place at all that would be safe against the many creatures that stalked the catacombs, fierce and thirsty for blood. At least now they had a door they could bar, a place for a fire, some semblance of a normal life, stark as it was. It was something.

"How are you feeling?" Sephiroth asked Aerith, the same question he always asked.

Aerith stared into the fire, her eyes far away. He waited, standing behind his empty armchair. When she did not answer him he began to trace the outline of the floral design on the splitting damask. Minutes passed. Finally he turned away. She would not speak to him again, for who knew how long. He would accept this.

Sephiroth knelt on the flagstones in front of the fire and took the kettle off its hook. Even if she had spoken to him, he thought, the answer would have been the same. She was fine, she was always fine. The lie was a familiar one, but still, it grieved him. How many times had she spoken it now, the same words dropping from her mouth like dew? Regardless of her words, her eyes and her body always showed the truth, trembling with the effort of what they had to deny. Sometimes, when he looked at her, the depths of pain reflected in her eyes made him want to tear himself to shreds.

He poured tea from the kettle into the cup he had prepared for her, then placed it onto the table for her to take.

Aerith said nothing, only quietly picked up the cup and brought it to her mouth.

It was the least he could do, he thought, settling in the other armchair and surreptitiously watching her sip her tea, just to minister to her a simple human comfort in one of the few ways she would allow. It was worth that much, to try to heal instead of destroy. It was unsteady business; it felt grossly unnatural, just like everything did since his rebirth. But still, in spite of all they had been through together in their initial struggle for survival, or anything he did now that proved his continued attrition, Aerith kept her distance.

Who would blame her, he thought, after what he had been, a madman, a murderer. He tried to think back, to make sense of it. Memories of his former life came back to him randomly, out of order, in pieces. There were still long periods of time that remained unaccounted for. What he could remember seemed completely separate from himself, as if it had happened to someone else. But it had been him, he knew, all along. He had been nothing more than Hojo's bastard child, Jenova's puppet. He still remembered that much.

Sephiroth cursed to himself and squeezed his eyes shut, crushing away the memories with a force of will. Sometimes it felt as if he was drowning in blood, in death. His past clung to him like wet silk, no matter how hard he fought, he never felt free of it. Through clenched teeth Sephiroth exhaled and opened his eyes. It was better not to think about it, if he could. He turned back toward the fire, watching it burn steadily in the hearth he had made.

Aerith was relaxing now, her pain fading into a dull throb. She fiddled absently with a loose ringlet of her auburn hair, her legs curled up beneath her. She prodded the cushion she was holding under one arm and took the last sip of her tea. She made a face. It was bitter in spite of all the sugar in it and she was sure she had gotten some of the dregs. A few minutes passed in gentle silence and gradually her pain ebbed even farther. She sighed, this time a soft exhalation of well being.

Secretly, Sephiroth noted his approval. The _Salix_ bark and other herbs he had infused into her tea were easing her pain without making her overly lethargic.

"Shall we burn some of this?" he asked her, showing her the ball of resin. She nodded, but still would not look directly at him. Sephiroth pulled out his ivory handled knife and began to shave off the outer layer of the resin, exposing a darker amber heart that smelled spicy, like cloves. He leaned over and cast a large handful of the shavings into the fire. They ignited instantly in a shower of sparks, leaving only a spiraling of blue smoke and a thick cloud of scent that crept across the room. Aerith smiled to herself as she breathed in the heady fragrance.

"Will you be going to bed soon?" he asked.

"Yes, "Aerith said, nodding slightly.

Sephiroth rose. It was bone chillingly cold in the caves almost year round; a fire needed to be started in her room so she wouldn't wake in the middle of the night, freezing. He walked down the corridor to her room in the dark, recognizing by feel the slight rise and fall of the uneven floor. He came to the familiar dip in the floor where the hallway split, turned to the right, and brushed the heavy curtain aside. Aerith's room. It was small, cozy even, a cell they had hewn with earth magic, like the rest of their home, out of the dense gray stone of the Crater. She had made it her little nest. A mahogany sleigh bed, piled with embroidered pillows and a blue silk eiderdown, took up most of the floor space.

Sephiroth smirked to himself in the dark. The bed and its trappings had been a gift he had given her, he remembered. She had smiled unabashedly then, the hard lines of pain in her face fading immediately into surprise and radiant joy. If only she knew it had cost nearly twice a working man's yearly wages and twice that again to convince the merchant to bring it, in pieces, to the edge of the Crater so he could carry it down. But what did it matter? Gil and precious stones were abundant enough, and it wouldn't do for her to sleep on the cold stone in the damp and mold like she had had to do, like they both had had to do, in the early days.

He remembered again the smile she had smiled. It hadn't been for him, he knew, she had just been pleased. But still she had looked at him, met his eyes, for the barest of seconds, and her eyes were full of light and happiness. No one had looked at him like that before, that he could remember. It had felt like the breaking of the dawn. His heart stabbed with strange pain at the remembrance of it.

He picked his way toward the soft glow that came from several materia that Aerith had left scattered on the low stone hearth. He searched among them, rolling them around like oversized marbles until he found the one he wanted. He knelt in front of the hearth and built a nest of kindling. The materia he had chosen smoldered warmly in his hand like a coal. Elemental magic swirled greenly within it, waiting. Sephiroth took a moment, focused his mind, and silently called forth its power. At his bidding the materia swelled to life, a little too strong, engulfing the dry twigs and sticks in a roaring tower of flame. He carefully added some heavier logs and waited for them to catch. It was silent except for the fire and his breathing. For all he heard he might have been alone, just a solitary man crouching by a small fire in a cave a mile beneath the surface of the earth.

Sephiroth looked at his hands, at the spare powerful shapes of the muscles and tendons bunching under his pale skin, the long shapes of the bones. He made a fist, released it. Old scars caught the light, showing clear and white where they crossed each other again and again. More of them chased their way up both of his arms in a brutal calligraphy of battles half-remembered, dragons he couldn't remember slaying. Perhaps it was better, he told himself, not to remember anything more than he already did about the life he led before, who he had been. Perhaps, if it hadn't been for Aerith. She was the exception around which everything revolved and changed.

Not that they were completely dissimilar. Her blood, her being, like his own, did not truly belong to the Planet. Neither of them, it seemed, had been quite human enough to pass through the Gate to eternal rest after they died.

Sephiroth shivered as he remembered the pain and horror of his rebirth. No matter how he had argued his case, the Gate would not let him cross. It had cast him back, violently, uncaringly, its high hollow voice twisting a promise like a needle in his ear: if he returned to it a second time, he would be destroyed. Why he had not simply been annihilated in the first place was a mystery. Perhaps the Gate had not wanted to bother itself with him, a lab-bred piece of filth, any more than it had to.

It had spat him up on the shore of the Lifestream like an old peach pit, as indifferent to his suffering as it was to everyone else's.

Weak and naked as a newborn baby, Sephiroth took his first gasping breaths in dank mud, unable in his frailty even to turn his head. His eyes burned blindly with scalding green light. Sudden nausea and a horrible ripping pain balled him up like a wad of paper; he vomited uncontrollably again and again. Strange shrieking cries, the cries of a tortured animal, echoed off the walls, and he tried feebly to kick at whatever might be attacking him, terrified of what he couldn't see, of the thought of being helplessly eaten alive by whatever creatures were out there, lurking unseen in the dark.

He vomited again and gasped for breath, water sluicing through his sinuses. More shrieking beat him down, the echoes booming back a thousand fold. He waited, his brain reeling with pain, blood in his ears. At last the deafening cacophony dulled and faded. Dimly he realized that the sounds he had heard was his own voice, broken in his agony.

Reality smeared and expanded, opening into great endless voids of pain and silence. Who knew how much time passed, then. Seconds pulled out into centuries with the incredible labors of breathing, of coughing liquid out of his lungs. Images and memories crackled in his brain, frightening and uncontrollable. He shivered. It was cold, so very cold. He tasted mud and blood and bile, there was grit on his teeth and on his tongue. He could barely feel his hands and feet, could barely feel his body at all. Second death would be upon him soon, he thought, and then it would all be over, forever.

Then, through the screaming haze, thought he heard a voice. It was soft and calm, unlike all the other voices. It was impossible to tell where it came from, his hearing was so distorted. Suddenly he felt a warm weight on his skin, pressing his wrists, his throat. Hands pulled at him, turned him over onto his side. Blind as a worm, he tried to move, to defend himself from whomever had seized him, but his body would not respond. Cloth settled over him, covering his nakedness. Above the smell of his own sick he thought he smelt something soft, impossibly, the scent of flowers and, deeper still, the sea. Someone sat him up and spoke to him in a gentle blur of sounds. Cool clean water was poured over his mouth and he drank greedily, hungry for life.

It was Aerith. He knew it from that first touch, sensing it as strong and sure as he knew the moon was round. It was strange how fate twisted. The murdered and the murderer meet again and instead of vengeance, as should have been his lot, he received…mercy. Even now, he could never understand it.

For weeks he had drifted in and out of consciousness; curled like an embryo under a ragged cloak of moth eaten wool, only waking to take some water or eat some of the tasteless starchy paste offered to him. Gradually his Mako-shocked neurons began to regenerate and he slowly regained his speech, his hearing, his sight. Aerith remained a benevolent shadow just outside the reach of his vision. She did not touch him unless it was absolutely necessary, and he remained as undemanding as possible so that she would not have to.

Even after, when he was well, she remained a quiet presence that would never come too near, but also would never leave. They had continued together, for two years now, living like ghosts, bound by silences that would not bear the weight of examination.

Sephiroth added another log to the fire. With any luck it would burn through the night. He padded back into the main room.

"I've lit the fire, it should be warm soon," he said to Aerith, in a low voice so as not to startle her. She continued gazing into the fire, wrapped in a snowy silence that he knew he would never penetrate.

He bent forward and plucked her teacup from the tabletop. "Have more tea before you go to bed." Another dose would help her get through the night.

Aerith did not show any signs of having heard him. Her small white fists were curled under her chin, like an infants'. Where was she now, he wondered, what place did she go to, to be free of him, be free of this place? He watched her blink, slowly, her eyes golden, reflecting the fire.

Silently he refilled her teacup and placed it on the table before her. He settled into his own chair and feigned intense interest in a crumbling Wutainese philosophy book as Aerith began to stir. She got up, very gradually, one arm crossed lightly across her ribs. She took her teacup and padded in the direction of her room. She paused for a moment and turned to look at him, her eyes flickering over the outline of his form.

"Good night," Sephiroth said to her, his mouth tight. Wordlessly, Aerith bowed her head and disappeared into the darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

He needed to at least attempt to sleep, he told himself for the third time in as many minutes. The mantle clock said it was nearing six in the morning, not that time mattered here, in this dawnless place. Aerith had gone to bed hours ago. Sephiroth sprawled in her chair, his fingers drumming restlessly on the shredding damask. His mind tumbled with thoughts that were heavy and dark, like quarried clay. He glared balefully into the fire and for the thousandth time considered his fate, the one thing that he knew he could understand.

In essence there was nothing beyond his current life that he could look forward to; no promise of paradise should he repent or even a chance to win a place in hell if he refused.

He smirked. Imagine, wishing for hell. It was at least a place, a state of being. If death came now the Gate would be the only thing to meet him, opening before him like the pupil of a great eye, and then there would be nothing. Would it be painful, he wondered, as the Gate consumed him? Would he go slowly, or just wink out of existence like an errant star? Sephiroth closed his eyes and tried to imagine the awful silence of that complete nothing, tried to imagine what it would be like to feel his consciousness dissolving in the gnawing dark. However it would happen, it was inevitable. He held the thought before him like a held breath and let it sink in.

Gradually he became conscious of the warmth of the fire on his face, the slow throb of the pulse in his throat. He opened his eyes. All he had, truly, was the space of his next breath and the next and the next, until chance or accident ended it forever.

Sephiroth rose from the chair. He could brood in his room as well as anywhere, he thought, and besides, above all he wanted to be alone. Aerith had never dared cross the threshold of his room for any reason and she would not begin now.

Silent as a fox on the snow, he padded down the hall and stopped at the place where the hallway diverged. He held his breath for a moment, listening outside her room. He heard nothing. She was sleeping well. No dreams, no pain. That was good, at least. He turned left and brushed aside the heavy curtain, into his own room.

It was lightless and cold once he stepped inside, as he knew it would be. He lit a fire in the grate and paced back and forth before it, his arms crossed tightly over his chest until he could no longer see his breath. Then he sat on the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands. There was not much in the room to command his attention. Unlike Aerith's cozy and relatively well-furnished space, his was large and sparse, containing only a double mattress with a thin gray quilt and two featureless cabinets of polished ebony.

Sephiroth began to unlace his boots. Legions of twisted emotions were rising in him like a gathering storm, impossible to understand or resist. The familiar restlessness that only plucked at him now would grow, he knew, until it reached a crest that would keep him awake, moving ceaselessly, for days and days. Sephiroth pulled off his boots and threw them into the corner. He stared at the contrast of his large bony feet against the dark rug.

It had never been allowed before, for him to exist like this, constantly tainted with the inconvenience and turmoil of emotions. It enraged and sickened and frightened him by turns, which by the very experience of it enraged him even more.

It was better to be pure and above such petty human weakness, he thought, but those were Hojo's words, not his own. Hojo had always smiled at him when he said that, showing his small sharp teeth. It was better, it would be better… That was the phrasing that Hojo had used to let him know that he had failed, or had trespassed one of his many subtle rules. They were also the words that let him know there would soon be consequences for his failure, which meant he would submit to the Crown. And he would submit. There were worse things.

How many times, Sephiroth wondered, had he woken up on that vinyl-padded hospital table, his arms stretched out and fastened down like a crucifixion, that same sickly-sweet roll of iodine tasting cotton clenched between his teeth? He could almost still feel prickly weight of the wreath of electrodes on his head, could almost hear the steady dripping of the IV. How many painful hours had he stared at his reflection, then, watery and far away, in the pristine steel ceiling? But now he found himself longing for the peace that followed in the wake of that pain, the peace that left him as blank and featureless as a sheet of white glass.

Sephiroth pushed up his sleeve, running his thumb over the fine constellation of needle scars clustered on the inside of his arms. The Crown had not been the only way Hojo had used to control him. He had seen the scans that showed what they had done. Thin polymer rods, as fine as an acupuncturist's needle, had been implanted into specific regions of his brain to slowly release the drugs and Mako Hojo wanted, channeling the growth of his neural network from the inside out.

There had also been the endless injections, cocktails of growth factors, hormones, synthetic peptides, neurotransmitters. When he was very young and kept full time in the lab he had marked time with the stick of a needle, the one thing in his life that had been truly dependable. Three under his skin, one in the muscle, and four samples of blood from the central line port at his hip meant a day had passed; when Hojo came with the large gauge syringes that slid into his spine and belly, it meant he was a year older.

Not unaware of the irony, he found himself longing for all of that, too. With the drugs, pain became a merely intellectual phenomenon; he noticed it like he noticed the direction of the wind. Under their sway he had never been conscious of either strength or frailty in his body or of its incessant demands for food, water, sleep.

As effectively as the drugs made him insensible to his body, they had also made him immune from any dissention in his mind. They had dissolved his strife and pain, condensed his consciousness to a single diamond point, made him clear and purposeful…and hollow.

Perhaps that was why Jenova had found him so excellent a host when She had awakened in him, he thought bitterly. There had been so much room left in him for Her to occupy, since who he was had occupied so little. In his mind he said her names again. Jenova. Mother. Color came to his face as he flushed with shame and hunger.

She had opened him in a way that he had never experienced before, freeing all the secret thoughts long silenced from years of the drugs and the Crown. Relentless in the pursuit of Her ends, She had not stopped until She had finally unlocked the vast wellspring of rage that She knew lay sleeping in the core of his heart. Sephiroth smirked. That was all it took, to make him Her willing slave, that little taste of freedom, that opening. How easily he was twisted for Her own ends. The feelings of power She had allowed him then were better than any drug, even while he knew he was being used. The memory of those feelings still echoed in him like the lingering vapor of an exquisite taste. He had loved Her for it, as much as he could love anything. But all of that was long ago, a lifetime ago, he told himself. All of it was meaningless. He was alone now, and free. No one and nothing would enslave him ever again. He swallowed, hard, still feeling the flush of heat on his face, as a familiar but unnamable emotion tore through him like the November winds.

Sephiroth got to his feet. Unsure of what to do with himself, began to pace over the bare rock in front of the hearth. It never helped, when he got like this, to be still. He paced faster and faster, becoming more and more agitated with each circuit. The chill of the stone stung his feet and finally he sat down again on the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands. He rubbed at his temples, wiping a long shock of pale hair back from his face. Still the restlessness gnawed at him, impelling him to move, to do something, anything. He turned around, toward the far corner of the room where a tall dark cabinet stood like a sentry. Its blank polished face showed nothing of what lay inside. But he knew. Masamune.

It had been five months, twelve days, and sixteen hours since he had found it lying half buried in silt on the shore of a subterranean river deep within the Crater. From the moment he had touched it, held it once more in his hands, nothing had ever been quite the same.

One by one, as if they were too poisonous for the earth to hold, other things from his former self began to surface in the underground lakes and rivers. He found a piece of harness one day; the next his shoulder pauldron. One nights' wandering brought him the twin prize of his carbonite bangles, each still glittering with powerful materia. Everything he had lost, he found again over the long months, storing it all up piece by piece until all was complete. He told Aerith none of this. There was no need to give her yet another reason to fear him, he thought, she had enough to overcome.

Sephiroth stood in front of the cabinet in the gold firelight and laid his palms flat on the smooth face of the door. He could sense it immediately, the power rushing through the dark wood like echoing voices. It pulled at him, compelling him to once again to be a part of it. He reached for where the latch was buried, but pulled back at the last moment. What was he doing, and why? There was no logical answer he could think of to give; it just was the thing he must do, the only thing that felt right to do.

The old death-hunger rose in him like sheet lightning and clawed up into his head, impossible to argue with. His fingertips pressed forward, trembling on the cold metal of the latch. The cabinet door arced open and the long wicked blade of Masamune caught the light with a razor sheen. God, it was beautiful. Sephiroth took it down from the peg where it hung, sleeping, and brought it out into the air. With his contact Masamune awoke, calling for him to remember itself, weaving silently its beautiful song of mercy and death. Sephiroth rested the cool flat of the blade against his cheek, listening, and somewhere inside of him something slid into place like a great block of stone. It had been too long. A sword like that needed to be used. He paced over to the other cabinet, and opened it. Inside his armor glittered like lost treasure, his infamous black cloak beside it. Without question he drew it out and dressed hurriedly in the near dark. He relaced his boots, impatient with himself, and stood up. Light was rising in his head, a bloodlust that knew no bounds. In a blind daze he ran the pad of his thumb down the length of the blade. The skin split effortlessly. Dark drops of his blood fell on the carpet. He focused on the pain like it was a blessing.

Sephiroth bolted the outer door safely behind him. It was almost completely dark in the outer caverns, the only light the dimly glowing moss on the wall and the pale white orb of Light materia that was obediently floating at head height in the air beside him. He turned and glanced at the bolted door. Aerith? She would be safe. He deliberated for a half a second more, then turned and broke into a run.


	3. Chapter 3

The heavy rhythmic press of the armor on his back was a familiar weight as he ran, the buckles at his throat jangling faintly each time his feet hit the ground. The half forgotten thrill of movement and power rose up in him strong, driving him blindly onward into the heart of the Crater. His senses opened up, drinking in his surroundings, feeding his hunger. The feel of the air as he moved and breathed was almost narcotic. In his hands Masamune sang, promising the grievous riches of spilled blood. He ran the blade down the side of the cavern wall, leaving a dark line of split stone trailing in his wake. He smiled cruelly, baring his teeth. So, he thought, this was what it was to remember.

The chamber he found himself in bristled with stalactites. He slowed his pace, picking his way between sharp spindles of rock and pools of stagnant water. Fat drops of condensation dripped in a steady rain from the ceiling. In the harsh reflected light of the Light materia he could just make out a large dark shape heaped at the far end of the chamber. Waves of incredible stench, putrefying fur and fungus, came from it. As he approached he saw it was the carcass of an enormous creature covered in loose purple hair. Four long curved horns crowned the head of the beast. It had been a King Behemoth, an old one, he noted, by the number of striations on the horns. Sheets of black long limbed insects clambered in its moldering fur, retreating from the light as he paced around it. Suddenly the carcass moved, shoved toward him violently. Sephiroth jumped back to avoid being crushed by the weight of it as it tumbled over. Looking up, he saw the reason: half coiled around the opposite side of the carcass was a great pale Tarka worm, feeding. It buried into the side of the dead beast, pulling away chunks of rotting flesh with its snarly teeth. It was itself almost as large as the carcass it fed on. Sephiroth twitched the end of Masamunes' blade in impatience as he waited the long second it took for the worm to attack him.

The great worm obliged him almost immediately, dropping the chunk of half-chewed flesh that was in its mouth. All four thousand pounds of its heaving glutinous bulk rose up before him, and, grasping the dead beast with half of its nubby vestigial feet, it shoved aside the whole of the Behemoth carcass with as much difficulty as if it had been a piece of driftwood. The worm snarled gutturally, slapping its flabby eyeless head from side to side, trying to pinpoint his location by heat. It clicked its needle-like teeth, trying to draw in more air in which to get a better bearing. The poisonous spines along its back fanned out in a threat display, glittering with deadly ichor. Chittering wildly, the worm turned and heaved its body at him, trying to impale him with its spines. Sephiroth sidestepped and brought Masamune down and across in a graceful arc. A dark purple slash appeared in the worms' throbbing white side. It shrieked: a horrible shrill sound that echoed for minutes back through the miles of tunnels. The worm writhed in its rage and the slash split, spilling its entrails in a gush of purple foulness. Sephiroth spun around and neatly clipped the back of its head, severing the bundle of nerves at the base of its brain. Like a marionette freed from its strings, the worm dropped to the ground in a heap, paralyzed. Its jaws opened and shut uselessly, finding nothing but air until eventually even they, too, were still.

Sephiroth considered his handiwork impassively. The worm looked almost ridiculous sprawled out in a crescent with the clean, almost surgical incision in its side, its gut looping out in a dark wash. Sephiroth smirked to himself. He had not even broken a sweat. He wiped the length of his blade on the hem of his coat and set off in search of braver quarry.

He had not gone far when something scrabbled on the stones behind him. Sephiroth turned, but even he was not fast enough to catch what it was that had made the sound. He continued, taking a few steps onward, but he heard the sound again, this time from behind an outcropping of fungus-encrusted rock. Suddenly something moved in the dark, grating on the shale. The sound echoed off the walls, making it difficult to judge which direction it came from. He froze and waited, his body tense, listening intensely. A drop of water fell from the ceiling, dropped coldly onto his forehead, and ran into his eyes but he did not move. From the darkness came a low animal growl, a flurry of shadows and scattering stones.

Suddenly, in the strong clear light of the Materia, there was a glitter of reflected light. Six pairs of white, waxy eyes appeared, glaring balefully from behind an outcropping of tumbled rocks. Whatever it was came closer.

A half a second later Sephiroth had enough light to put a name to what threatened him. Cavern wolves. Their fur was long and hoary, streaked green with algae where it dragged in ragged clumps on the ground. Enormous creatures, their jaws had a span that could have easily bitten a Chocobo in two and swallowed the pieces whole.

The wolves paced forward, growling low, drawn to him by the smell of the eviscerated worm. Sephiroth leveled his sword. Three more pairs of eyes appeared in the darkness over his right shoulder, then four, then five. One of the larger wolves drew close, snarling, showing him four long fangs that seeped with black poison. It was the alpha male. The twisted hair on his back bristled in rage and he opened his mouth in an unholy roar. There were echoing snarls from the rest of the pack. The alpha male paced back and forth before him, taunting him, its large milky eyes flashing yellow and green. Suddenly it lunged, snapping at him, its teeth closing on air.

Sephiroth kept it at bay with the tip of his sword, matching its movements with perfect synchronicity. The wolf fell back, foaming with rage. More poison wept from its jaws and fell in slobbering ribbons onto the floor. The pack moved in closer, growling to each other, their eyes glittering like fireflies. Not to be deterred, the alpha male reared up and lunged again, seeking to rend anything it could reach with its venomous jaws.

Sephiroth caught it on the upsweep, opening its throat in a hot red flood of blood and hair. Masamune sliced cleanly, moving through bone and flesh like water. Turning, he kicked the gurgling carcass of the alpha male to the floor, working his blade back and out. It was all the incitement the rest of the pack needed. In the space of half a heartbeat they were on him, desiring with one mind to shred his flesh, crack his bones like candy. In the center of the fray Sephiroth was a pale dancing moth, killing gracefully, meeting animal fury with studied point and counterpoint. The wolves fell like leaves, their blood spitting on the ground like autumn rain. He turned and struck down the last wolf that challenged him, cutting its legs out from under it. He kicked the carcass down and opened its throat to hasten its death. The last few surviving wolves turned tail and ran back into the dark, howling their weird and echoing cries. But still it was not enough.

Driven by a nameless rage, Sephiroth hunted them all the way back to their den; a sandy hollow littered with bones that might have once been the basin of an underground lake. Here he cornered them, striking down any that dared to attack or tried to escape.

Soon all that remained standing to challenge him was the alpha female. She was immense and grizzled, her muzzle crossed with scars, the crest of her back as high as his head. One shredded ear dangled at the side of her head, bearing proof of her eminence. Her blood-rimmed eyes bore into his, unafraid, hating him with the ancient hate of her mother and all the foremothers before her. She stood her ground and glared at him, growling low in her throat. Her belly was swollen, heavy with unborn pups, and this made him hesitate, but only for a second.

A young wolf, mortally wounded and desperate, lunged in at him from just outside his peripheral vision. Sephiroth twisted to dodge, but not fast enough. Its jaws snapped down on the hand that he had put out reflexively to steady himself as he turned. He felt a sharp pain, like a stirge, pierce the thick web of muscle between his index finger and thumb. The wolves' upper and lower canines stabbed completely through his hand, locking between the thin bones. He wrestled with the thing, the dry bones on the floor clattering under his feet. The only thing that kept its jaws from closing completely and taking his hand was the bangle that he wore. The wolves' jaws worked savagely at it, chipping the tough material like ice. A few of its teeth cracked on the impenetrable Materia, but still it would not release him.

Trying to concentrate above the incredible pain, Sephiroth focused, then called into existence the most powerful fire spell he could think of. The spell burst from his palm: a plume of flame so hot it was white. The air shivered and ran with heat. His eyes dazzled in the spectacular blackness that followed. The wolf, dead and carbonized almost to the bone, still dangled from his hand, anchored in his flesh by its teeth. Without a moments' hesitation, the alpha female took her chance and leapt for his throat. Sephiroth twisted backward, out of her reach. He heard her teeth snap sharply together over him. She fell off to one side and gathered her legs under her for another leap. Sephiroth let her dance with him for a while, opening a few superficial wounds, letting her tire. She was still on her feet when he finally struck her down, stabbing his blade in a single smooth movement right between her hating eyes.

Sephiroth stood for a moment, his sword ready, straining for any other sound, the scrabble of bones, anything. He waited. Sweat ran down the back of his neck. Except for the throbbing race of his heart, it was silent. He sheathed his sword across his back and, with several tries and intense effort, pried apart the charred jaws of the wolf that was still clamped on his hand. Ignoring the pain as well as he could, he appraised the damage. Other than some raked contusions, his hand was punctured neatly in through his palm and out through the thick flesh on the other side. The hole was as big around as a two gil piece; black venom glittered wetly within it, mingling with his blood. Already his hand burned as if frostbit, the painful crushing sensation steadily creeping up his arm as the poison coursed toward his brain. Sephiroth clenched his teeth and lightly touched the entry points of the wound, breathing an Esuna. Clear plasma began to seep from the wound, carrying the poison with it. It would ooze for three days, he knew, and then it would begin to close.

Slowly, as if awakening from a trance, a new awareness came to him. He looked at himself. His hands and arms were spattered with red mammalian blood and cords of thick greenish hair. He looked down. He was smeared throat to belly with more of the same; it congealed wetly on his clothes and, cooling with his sweat, coated his skin with a gelid layer of foulness. In his sinuses was the hot iron smell of blood and burnt hair, the same sharp taste was in his mouth. It was horrible. Sephiroth spat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked at his sword. The blade of Masamune was perfect and unblemished, shining an almost pearlescent white in the stagnant air. He surveyed the heaped bodies of the slain wolves, at the drying entrails on the floor and suddenly the sight repulsed him as it never had before. Had the death he dealt always been so ugly? Why had he never noticed it?

The dead and empty eyes of the alpha female were still staring at him, hating him from beyond the grave. Something moved weakly in her belly and he turned briskly away, sickened by the reality of what he had done, and what he must do now. He took a few paces away and stopped. His breathing was coming too fast and his throat felt tight. He turned back and drew out his sword. Death was better if it came quickly. Every second he waited was another second the suffering would be prolonged. Sephiroth rested the tip of Masamune's blade against the alpha female's belly, in the place where her ribcage divided. He pushed forward and swept the blade across. Her skin and muscles obliged him, opening like a zipper. He tried not to hear the wet sounds that followed. He felt resistance as the blade finally met the heavy bones in her pelvis and drew back, flicking the blade out and away.

There. It was over. He turned away, sheathing Masamune across his back. He stood there for a moment. Blood and amniotic fluid from the alpha females' belly creeped unnoticed between his feet. He noticed that his hands were shaking. They had never shaken before. He clenched his fists to stop them. Sephiroth took a few paces forward, then began to run. It was all a waste, a horrible, horrible waste.


	4. Chapter 4

The journey back was long and slow. The fire within him had long since collapsed into cooling ash, the hunger he had felt not as much satisfied as simply gone, until he wondered what he had felt so strongly that had made him go forth in the first place. Masamune gave him no guidance, and as anxious as he was to make sense of what he had done, its silence was painful. He felt jangled and raw. At least now it wasn't human life he took now, he told himself again and again as he walked, not human, nothing with a soul…

Eventually the caverns began to widen as he spiraled slowly upward through the dark. The passageways began to look more familiar, the luminescent moss on the wall growing thicker and heavier until he almost didn't need the Light Materia to see. As he rounded a bend he began to smell from far away the faint wet tang of water and heat. He quickened his pace. The tunnel narrowed and twisted, then suddenly widened into a round high cavern. He had made it at last.

The underground lake was, by far, his favorite place, although it was not the most beautiful the Crater had to offer. The water of the lake was a pale blue green, milky with minerals and smelling faintly of the sea. Steam twisted in plumes above it, rising and falling endlessly from its blank surface. The lake nearly filled the cavern, leaving only a tumbled collection of smooth boulders around its perimeter.

A kelpy sort of waterweed grew over the rocks, trailing in the water. It was ironic to think that the only reason that Aerith and him had survived as long as they had was due to that humble plant. It grew everywhere in the caverns there was water. They had pulled them up out of the silt with their bare hands, chewing the fibrous roots for the gelatinous gray starch inside. He could almost still taste the green muddy flavor of it in the back of his throat. They had lived on it for months, supplemented from time to time by the odd fish or crayfish. As grateful as he had been for it at the time, he had no desire to experience it ever again.

Sephiroth picked his way over smooth black rocks to the waters' edge. He made his way toward a large flat boulder that lay half submerged in the lake, its mossy surface as flat and broad as a banquet table. Balancing lightly on the wet stone, he swept Masamune off his back and stabbed the blade down into it.

He could stand himself no longer. It seemed as if every part of his body was coated in blood, either dried down to a tight second skin or crusted with hair that reeked of the oily animal smell of the wolves. He pulled at the buckles and hasps of his armor, cursing silently to himself when his fingers did not work fast enough for his liking.

Stripped to the waist, barefoot, he stepped off the rock into the opalescent water. The bottom dropped off immediately without gradation. If he stood right where he was, his feet digging in the gritty sand, the water came up to his chest; two steps further out and the bottom vanished into depths that he imagined could have easily touched the mantle of the earth.

Sephiroth began his ablutions, scooping water up onto his neck and letting it run down his back. The murky white water darkened with blood, like a bruise. He waited for it to clear, then cupped his hands and scooped a handful of water to his mouth. It tasted vaguely salty, like dilute tears. He drank it like it was a sacrament. He brought another handful of water to his mouth and drank again, this time tipping his head back so that it ran off his chin and dribbled down the long line of his throat back into the pool.

He always seemed to end up here one way or another, he thought with an odd mixture of sadness and relish. He did not lie to himself. He knew the reasons why he came; to be clean, to forget what he had done, forget who he was, at least for a little while. The ultimate confidant, the water silently swallowed his sin and never asked for anything in return. Perhaps in time, he told himself as he ran his hands down his body and watched the water bloom a deeper red, he would not need to come here any more. Perhaps one day his sickness, the hunger to deal death, would leave him like the poison from a deep wound. At least he hoped so.

Sephiroth swept more water up to his throat, and rubbed it with his fingertips until his skin reddened and stung. His pierced hand burned fiercely, but he ignored it. He folded his knees and sank down into the murky depths of the pool. Turning onto his belly, he swam to the center, where his feet dangled in water easily three miles deep. He stretched, luxuriating in the heat and the free and easy movement of his body in the water. He dove down, twisting effortlessly as he came up, then lay on his back, kicking gently to keep him afloat. The sweep of his hair fanned out beneath him and trailed gauzily in the water like the shadow of a ghost. For a while he floated, trying not to think, trying only to feel the sensation of the water around him, holding him up. The intense heat of the water and the warm heavy air of the grotto made him languid and drowsy. He looked upward, his eyes half open, blinking slow. The ceiling of the chamber vaulted so high it was completely lost in darkness. Sephiroth closed his eyes, floating, and imagined it was open to the sky. He relaxed further, the surface of the water rising to his temples. His head drifted back, and soon the only sounds he heard was the liquid motion of the water in his ears and the rhythm of his heartbeat and breathing. In this gentle sea his mind opened and a lost memory bloomed in the forefront of his thoughts.

In the memory he was sixteen again, his body thin and wiry, his hair bound tightly back at the nape of his neck with a twisted black cord. In his minds eye he could see the stars in their familiar constellations; they blazed impossibly bright, just like they had on that night, so many decades ago, a lifetime ago…

It had been stifling hot in that room, in contrast with the bitter Wutai night. He had spent the better part of the evening concealed in a wardrobe, swaddled with hanging silks and strong smelling robes of thick velvet.

He had disposed of the drugs Hojo had instructed him to take as soon as he had cleared Midgar's outer gate. In his rare free moments he had always wondered what it would be like without them, and now, at last, he knew. Bit by bit, the cool tranquil numbness of their influence was leaving him and a thousand new sensations of the real world were rushing in like heavy breakers. He embraced it all indiscriminately, fueled by a sense of reckless hungry abandon.

His head was throbbing painfully; a censer had been spilling out clouds of thick scent into the room for the last hour, but he did not dare to move and give up his position. It was growing very late. His target, a young Wutainese merchant prince by the name of Devonai Morimoto, could appear any time now. He would wait as long as it took. Morimoto needed to sleep sometime. A muscle in his leg twitched. His head continued to throb. He would wait. Impatience was never a useful attribute in this game. Already it had taken the better part of a month to track Morimoto as he zigzagged from place to place, strangely elusive for a mere merchant prince. At last he had followed him here, to his tiny villa high in the northern Wutainese Mountains. Now he was simply waiting for Morimoto to come to bed so he could quietly slit his throat and be done with it.

A faint sound of bells; someone had brushed open the thick curtain that led into the room. He judged the pattern of the sound of footfalls on the carpet as they walked. The space between the steps was too short, too light to be Morimoto. He hoped it was the maid, in to turn down the bedclothes, dim the lights, then disappear, his target soon to follow. He peered between the layers of silk and through the thin space between the wardrobe doors to see if he could confirm his theory. There was a flurry of movement in the room, then suddenly the wardrobe doors opened wide. Even though he was cloaked in layers of powerful concealing magic, he froze.

A woman was looking directly at him. It was not the maid. He had never seen her before. She was uncommonly beautiful, with great dark eyes and an unconscious gracefulness that spoke of years of training in dance and the arts. Her gaze flickered over the contents of the wardrobe. Her perfume was a blend of subtle yet evocative scents; morning mist and daylilies, ginger and musk. She reached in and touched a few of the finer robes, rubbing the fabric between her finger and thumb. She finally came to a decision, and, smiling, pulled out a red silk robe embroidered with an elaborate design of phoenixes and peony blossoms. She turned away with her prize, leaving the doors of the wardrobe open.

Invisibly, Sephiroth smirked to himself. This was an unexpected advantage. Now he could see the entire room without obstruction. The woman went from lamp to lamp, turning them all down until the room was suffused in a dim golden light. She paused to caress the petals of a large arrangement of chrysanthemums and then, piece by piece, began to undress. Even though he was concealed and it was impossible for her ever to know, Sephiroth looked away, at the corners of the room, at the floor, suddenly unnerved.

He had seen scientific illustrations and performed dissections of the female body; had studied in exacting detail the particularities that made them what they were. But Hojo's ruling on the subject was absolute. Except as targets, women were forbidden, strictly forbidden, although naturally Hojo exempted himself from his own rules. Sephiroth looked down, put his hands over his eyes to crush away the temptation to stare. But, surely, Hojo could not know, he reasoned. He was a thousand miles, an ocean away. Sephiroths' pulse started to rush at the thought of this, most sacred, freedom. Against the last plea of his better judgment, he opened his eyes.

The woman's body was as gracefully composed as her face, with long deerlike legs and small high breasts. Her skin was snowy and pale, blushing pink at her throat and at the backs of her knees where the skin was thin. The woman laid her shed clothes neatly over the arm of a chair, and then stood in front of the mirror. She casually pulled the pins from her hair and shook it out, running it between her hands to smooth it. It fell to the small of her back like a cascade of black satin. Through all of this Sephiroth stared at her, transfixed. The faint scent of her perfume still floated in the air around him. He tasted it again as he inhaled, just the ghost of floral bitterness in his dry mouth.

Bells again. The woman, absorbed in smoothing the folds of the robe she had just wrapped around herself, turned and looked at the door with an expression of joy. The target had arrived. Morimoto's back, so familiar to him now, came into view. He wore only a simple kimono of textured black silk. He was saying something to the woman that sounded like an apology. The woman's arms twined around him, her hands clasped his powerful shoulders, clutching at the silk as he kissed her. Morimoto said something low and urgent to her in Wutainese and she replied to him in the same breathless tone. She was sitting on the edge of the bed now, Morimoto leaning over her, hungrily kissing down the long line of her throat. His loose kimono slipped off his shoulders and was only prevented from falling off completely by the cord knotted at his waist. On his shoulder blades were tattooed the Eyes of Truth, the ancient Wutainese symbol for vigilance and protection. Sephiroth stepped out of the wardrobe, the cloaking magic melting away as he broke his cover. For a long second he stood and absorbed the scene: the blue tattooed eyes on Morimotos' back looking at him, the sheen of sweat on his skin; the muscles under them, tensing; the soft cry of the woman as she said his name. The woman's hands moved from the nape of his neck up into his hair as Morimoto eased her slowly down onto her back. Sephiroth took in a breath, held it. The time was now. He would not fail to complete his mission.

The knife went in as easily as it always did: in with a neat pop between the cervical vertebrae, severing the spinal column, and out at the pit of the throat. He gave the knife a slight twist as he withdrew, opening the jugular. Morimoto jerked, then went limp and pitched forward, dropping off the side of the bed. He hit the floor, gurgled once, then was silent. His dark venous blood stained the carpets a darker crimson.

For a few seconds the woman did not move. She did not scream, either, as he expected her to. They looked at each other, silently, and he wondered what she thought of the sight of him, if the sight of the sixteen year old assassin before her was astonishing or simply confusing to her. There was a scratch just below her collarbone where the tip of his knife had brushed when it had passed through Morimotos's neck. The woman pressed two long elegant fingers to the scratch, feeling the thin dot of blood starting to swell into a drop and run. Her eyes danced over the floor, following the swirling pattern of the rug.

When she looked up at him again a strange clear light of something like madness danced in her eyes. Her robe was open, exposing the strip of pale skin between her breasts, the gentle curve of her belly, the dark tangle of her sex, but she made no effort to cover herself. She lay before him as if still before her lover, stunned. That strange light was still shivering in her eyes as she regarded him.

"Please," she said at last, sitting up and reaching out her hands toward him with great tenderness. "Don't kill me.'"

Her fingertips reached out and shivered down his jaw, they traveled down, stroking his throat, his hair, finally resting on the broad flat muscles of his chest. Sephiroth flinched at the contact, trying to block out what he was feeling, afraid of what he would do if he truly allowed himself to feel it. At the same time he resisted the temptation to close his eyes, to focus on the sensations and drown himself in them forevermore.

She spoke to him again. "I will do anything you ask, anything, just please…"

Now he was truly afraid. It mixed uneasily with his strengthening desire. Why hadn't she just screamed? Then he could have put her down without mercy, she could have just been a casualty, a threat to completing his mission. "Please…" she was begging him now but it did not sound like begging, leaning closer to him, her robe spilling away to reveal more of her body, which was pearl white, dewy from shock and fear. God, he wanted her. She would have him, without question. All he had to do was reach out his hands, touch warm yielding skin...


	5. Chapter 5

Sephiroth jerked awake from the trance, from the memory, forgetting he was still suspended in the lake and there was nowhere to stand. He inhaled water, choked, coughed it up. He swam back towards shore, found a rock and embraced it, burying his face in the leathery waterweed. For a few minutes he clung there, frozen, panting hard.

The woman. He had seized her with a ferocity he did not think he possessed and kissed her, hard. It was his first, and only, kiss. He could still remember the shocking heat and wetness of her mouth, the taste of it, the incredible softness of her body as he had crushed his hardness against her. He had drawn back to admire her and then, before she had time to catch her breath, he had cut her throat. Cut it so fast and deeply that he had felt the lip of his knife dragging across the vertebrae in her neck. That was how it ended.

He thought of how she had looked at him as she fell down to death beside her lover, confused and afraid, her delicate hands clasped to her pumping throat. Even as the light faded from her eyes she had been beautiful. It had been him that had been ugly.

There was no name for what he felt now, only that he wanted it to stop. His throat was closed, hard, and when he finally forced himself to take a breath it came out in an audible gasp that caused his whole body to constrict painfully with it. Like this he grieved, for himself, for the boy he once was. He sobbed tearlessly, lost in the ruin of his own heart, completely unable to understand himself or anything in him.

Again and again in his mind's eye he saw the woman's look of terror as the knife came across, heard the whooping intake of air come from her open windpipe the second before the jet of red carotid blood burbled up like a fountain. And he had stood there, grinning, exulting like a god. In the end he had overcome his base desire, crushing it away like the refuse it was. Once again he had killed for his master, and he had loved it.

Again his throat clenched, a deep sob escaping his lips. The strangled sound of it and his dry burning eyes made him hate himself even more. Tears were never something he could manage, even in his childhood. He was not human enough to weep.

Sephiroth put his face to the rock and asked for someone, anyone, to forgive him, forgive what he had done, what he was. He pleaded to the stone, to the water, to himself, for understanding, and even though there was no reply or sign that his words were heard, gradually the fierce knot in his chest ebbed away and he could sob no more.

It was a long time before he finally pulled himself out of the water. He sat on the rock beside Masamune, his knees drawn up to his chest. His body still quaked, as if with intense cold. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself. Water from his hair ran steadily down his back, making his skin crawl. Vaguely irritated, he gathered it up with his hands and wrung it out, the water spattering harshly on the bare rock. Sephiroth tossed the length of his hair over his shoulder, where it lay on his back like a warm heavy snake.

As much as he wanted to, he could not lie to himself. He had enjoyed killing the woman, just as he had taken perverse pleasure in every other murder he had committed. Part of him still loved it. Murder was his primary job, his purpose, the thing at which he had been groomed to excel for as long as he could remember. And he had excelled, he had lived to excel, driven first by Hojo, then by the drugs, then only by himself. Or so he had thought. What am I, who am I, really?, he wondered, shivering. He considered many answers, none of which seemed to wholly satisfy him, or justify his existence.

Slowly, Sephiroth got to his feet. He rinsed his armor and the remainder of his clothing in the pool and pulled them on, taut and dripping, for the long walk home.

Perhaps, he thought as he walked, Masamune heavy on his back, perhaps in another life he could have chosen differently. He tried to imagine what it might have been like for him, to have had a normal life, to have had a mother and father, siblings, a home. It was difficult, he knew the meaning of the words, the definitions of the terms as a dictionary would define them, but had very little idea of what they actually meant.

He remembered walking through Costa Del Sol with Hojo when he had been five or six. Even then he knew what was expected of him: walk at least a foot away, do not touch anything or anyone, do not speak, keep his shoulders back, head up. He had squinted in the brilliant sunlight, unused to so much wide open space, the heat, the glare. In the square there were a group of children playing and although they were the same age as him, they seemed a species apart. The children kicked a battered soccer ball between them, laughing loudly and calling to each other. Their skin was deeply tanned from the sun, their bare feet flashing as they chased after the ball. They moved and talked freely, boisterously. No adult stood over them, watching their every move, except for the frozen ice vendor, who looked up from time to time at their antics, chuckling to himself.

He remembered looking at the children and their game longingly, being careful to keep the expression on his face neutral and not to look too long so that Hojo did not notice. But no, they would not have invited him to play even if Hojo had not been there, they wouldn't have known what to do with him, the taciturn kid with the ghostly hair and haunted eyes, too tall and thin for his age. And it was likely he wouldn't have known what to do with them, either.

Sephiroths' thoughts were interrupted by the sight of the outer door. He had somehow arrived home, not even remembering how he got there. He took a deep breath and opened the outer lock.

It was silent in the main chamber, and dim, the fire had burned down to a heap of dimly glowing embers. Cold and spent, his fatigue mounting, Sephiroth padded toward his room until he came to the split in the hall. He stopped. Water dripped down the edge of his coat and began to form a puddle on the floor.

Aerith. He gazed into the silence behind her curtain. His throat tightened. Her crime was that she had had a Cetran mother. As if she had chosen that. He swallowed, painfully, and turned away, sweeping aside the curtain and stepping into his room. The rest of them could not be helped, it was already too late, he thought. He would carry their deaths around his neck for the rest of whatever life he had left to him. But with her… He could not say the words that articulated his hope, not even to himself.

In the cold darkness of his room he peeled off his wet clothes, spreading them before the struggling fire to dry. He changed into a loose hooded robe of dark grey homespun. Cowled, monk-like, he sat on the hearth and meticulously wiped down his armor, rubbing the scarred metal with a thin layer of oil before placing it back in its cabinet. He turned the piece of armor he was working on over in his hands and wiped down the underside with a soft rag. His thoughts kept him company as he worked.

Once he had thought it beautiful, to kill, to be isolated from the rest of the human race. That it was higher and purer. Like snow. Like the stars. At least that was what Hojo had always told him. It made him sick to remember that he had been so slavishly blind; that he had lived the majority of his life barely questioning anything in his world, or anything Hojo had said. If only it were enough, he thought, not to want it now, to wish there could have been another way, to choose another way now even if he could not have chosen it at the time. He clung to the possibility like a silk thread over a deep chasm.

Sephiroth placed aside the piece of armor he had finished working on and reached for Masamune, drawing it out of its sheath and examining its blade for imperfections. Naturally, there were none. He wiped it once to be sure, and then concentrated on removing flecks of dried blood out of the elegant fretwork of the guard.

Sephiroth laid Masamune to rest in its cabinet, glad to be free of it. He surveyed his surroundings. Everything was in its place, accounted for. He plucked the glowing Light materia out of the air and set it on the floor. At his touch the sphere faded to black and he was left in the flickering amber light of the fire. He lay down on his bed and gathered the cold folds of the quilt around him. He blinked, focusing on nothing. His wounded hand stung. One of his shoulders, the one he was resting on, felt abnormally warm and throbbed in time with his heart. It was bruised, probably. The coolness of the fabric felt good on it. It was still strange to him, to notice all these things, to have any real sensation of being present in his body at all.

The last thing he remembered before the dark wings of sleep swept over him was this: Even though the assassination of Devonai Morimoto had been a perfect success, Hojo had given him the Crown anyway.


	6. Chapter 6

The pain was coming back. Aerith curled up tighter in her soft featherdown bed, pulling the silky blue coverlet over her head. She sighed, weary of the constant battle with her painful body, and whispered a healing spell through her teeth. The magic diffused into her with a dull tingle and a sensation ran through her cells like heat and cold and numbness together. For the space of a few breaths the pain was gone, and then it began to seep in again, like it always did no matter what was done, spreading under her ribs in an aching pool of misery.

Stubbornly she crossed her arms, willing the pain away. What else could she do? In the dim space beneath the coverlet she waited, the air around her face becoming warm and damp as she breathed it in and out over and over again in quick little gasps. She shifted uncomfortably, and tried another spell, which gave her a few moments reprieve in which to think.

She had dreamt again last night, she was sure of it. Vaguely she remembered a kaleidoscopic swirl of brilliant colors and sounds; wild festival music playing. There were people all around her but their faces were blank, unremembered. They made sounds as if they were speaking to her, but she could never make out what they were saying above the ceaseless noise. Aerith frowned. In her life before, her dreams had been a secret refuge, a place where her Cetran mind was most open to the Planet and all its wisdom. It had been a place to rest, to commune with something closer to her kind. The strangely disordered blurs of sights, sensations and sounds that she experienced now, so common to human dreams, frightened her.

Her resurrection had changed everything. The voice of the Planet, her ever present companion since the moment she had been born, had been not as much simply silenced, but torn from her. Like phantom pains in a missing limb, Aerith reached out with her mind, again and again, trying to connect, trying to find the piece of her that was missing. She would feel the silent earth under her feet or bring the mute water to her mouth, wondering at their reticence, then suddenly remember what had happened, why they no longer spoke to her.

She had never really understood just how much she had leaned on the Planet and trusted it to sustain her, until she could no longer count on its guidance. How different she had been before, she thought. How young. She had been just a girl, a naïve but determined girl, untouched by the sorrow of the world, or the sorrow of what she was. That Aerith had worn pink, had an inordinate fondness for sweets, and loved animals and flowers above all things. Her life had been breezy and light; the despair of Midgar's slums had snaked its way into everyones' heart but hers. Laughter had come easily, and often, and friends grew around her like a well-tended garden.

Aerith opened her eyes. Her hands were curled before her, just barely visible in the tented darkness of the coverlet. She studied them carefully, a lump rising in her throat as she noticed the thick web of tendons on the backs of her hands, the tangle of blue veins over them. In her former life she had only handled flower stems, dug only in the loose rich soil of her garden plot; her hands had been as soft and graceful as the rest of her. Now they had grown callused and muscular from work, from the hard scrabble of her existence.

The Aerith that existed now had worn the scavenged clothes of the dead. She had snapped the backbones of blind cave fish with her bare hands and eaten their flesh, sacrificing them to survive. She knew her sorrow, and never let it far from her sight.

Another shock of pain stabbed through her. Aerith doubled up, gasping. Oh God, why did it have to hurt so badly? Hadn't she suffered enough, given enough, done enough, that she had also to endure this? Impotent rage bloomed in her heart at the incredible injustice of it all. She crushed her face into the pillows, shaking with anger and frustration. She punched them, once, twice, as hot tears poured from her eyes and soaked into the fabric. Cradled in her bed, Aerith sobbed like a lost child.

At last, it was over. She simply could not cry any more. Aerith released the pillow she was embracing and sat up, slowly. She sniffed. Her body answered her with a spasm of pain and she put one arm to it, hunching over. A spell later it had faded enough to be bearable. Aerith straightened up, her face settling into a look of grim resolve even though she felt as if she might come apart again at any moment. She would not dwell on her feelings any more today, she told herself sternly. She would get up, splash some cold water on her swollen face, and make herself some tea.

Aerith got up and reached for the quilted robe which was hanging over the foot of the bed and tugged it on over her thin cotton nightdress. Moving silently in her wool socked feet, she padded into the main chamber. The darkness in the room was almost complete, the fire had burned down to a heap of warm grey ash. She found her way by the weird green light of a Fire materia. It was quiet in the house, the only sound the steady ticking of the mantle clock. Sephiroth had not awakened, and hopefully would not for at least a few hours. She raked out the grate, tossing the ashes out the front door to be swept and gathered later, and rebuilt the fire. That accomplished, she rose stiffly from the hearth and headed to the little alcove in the side of the room that served as the kitchen.

Entirely too small to properly fit their needs, the kitchen alcove had been created with the last gasp of magic the Earth Morph materia could muster. A waist high ledge of rock ran the curve of the alcove, serving as counter space. A depression in it held a large bowl of beaten copper, while another deep depression, covered with a wooden lid, was storage for drinking water. Both of these had been chipped out, slowly and laboriously, by hand.

Crocks and casks of various foodstuffs, some bought from the merchant and some gathered themselves, were stacked on a wooden rack. On the floor was a heap of kettles and cooking pots, balls of braided sinew, and several small wooden barrels. There was just enough floor space for her to stand. She took the lid off the drinking water and grasped the handle of the dipper that was stuck in it. At the bottom, a Water materia shone, sea-green. They would never die of thirst, at least. Aerith bent over the copper bowl and poured the dipperful of water over the crown of her head. The water was one degree above freezing, but it felt good to her swollen eyes. She repeated the motion, sighing in relief, then patted her face dry with the voluminous sleeve of her housecoat. Now for tea. The kettle for heating water was sitting on the counter. She picked it up, shaking it gently to see if it was empty. Instead of the metallic echo of water being swirled there was a harsh clatter, as if the inside of the kettle was filled with birdshot. Strange, she thought, it had never made that sound before.

Cautiously she opened the lid. Inside there appeared to be a tightly knotted wad of odd filaments and leaves, packed around several chunks of dense black wood. She reached in and plucked out a few of them, laying them out on a towel to look at more closely. They weren't tea leaves, or any other kind of flora she could identify. She picked up the kettle, tipped it on its side and shook it, peering inside to see if there was anything else she had missed. The smell that came to her nose was bitter and dark, with a faint whiff of something like burnt marrow and almonds together. It was all very odd. Her mind raced, thinking back to the previous night. Sephiroth. He had a nearly inexhaustible knowledge of drugs and herbs, learned by necessity, he had said once, when he had still been a general. Most of them, he had said with characteristic understatement, were rather deadly.

Aerith blinked. He made tea for her nearly every day, boiling the water in that kettle. It was rare that he had any himself. Why had she never noticed this before? She looked again at the shredded bark in the bottom of the vessel, the pale tendrils of plant material that she did not know. All of it was still wet. A stark arrow of fear ran through her, making her knees weak. Oh God. Was he trying to poison her? Why else was he forcing her to drink these things, without her knowledge? Suddenly she felt herself turning dizzily, as phantom lights popped like flashbulbs before her eyes. She was going to be sick, or swoon. The kettle slipped out of her damp hands and struck the floor with a resounding clang, spitting a clotted trail of wet leaves and bark. Aerith clutched the sturdy arm of a shelf, her entire world compressed to the dull bronze kettle as it turned and swooped along the floor in a last few circles. As it finally came to rest, rocking gently back and forth in a spray of liquid the color of dried tobacco, the spell had passed, and she found herself once again able to breathe. She felt a slight current of air brush her face, and someone was talking to her. She looked up. It was him, the doer of the deed himself.

He had come straight from bed, knotting his robe hastily around himself. She hated at once the proud angularity of his shoulders, hated the way he was walking toward her now, his step so measured and precise, even in his bare feet. His unbound hair, silky and disordered from sleep, spilled over his shoulders like a veil. He took a few steps toward her, confused at her crabbed body language and the horrified angry expression on her face. She breathed in quickly and with that breath caught the first faint nuance of his scent. It was all the catalyst her wrath required.

"Keep the hell away from me, you deceitful bastard!" Aerith shouted, scrabbling backward until her back was up against the hard edge of the kitchen ledge and there was nowhere else to go.

Sephiroth looked her over, confused but unsurprised. Finally he was seeing the fury that he had always sensed in her but she had always had the good grace to suppress. He surveyed the upset kettle, the puddle on the floor. It made no sense. "What's wrong? "

She did not wait to let him finish his sentence, swiping a handful of the bark and leaves off of the countertop. "What is this?" she showed him the items in her palm and then threw them at him, hard enough to sting. Wet bits of bark stuck to his robe and pattered on the floor. "Were you trying to poison me slowly or is this the faster working variety?"

Sephiroth looked at her, her eyes were flashing fear and anger by turns. He strongly resisted the temptation to seize her, shake her until she relented of her awful impudent words. He ground his teeth silently in agitation. When he spoke his voice was low and calm. "It's _Salix_ bark, Aerith, the pale filaments are _Aspidium_ moss. Steeping them extracts their analgesics. For your pain."

As he watched, the fury drained from her face, although she made attempts at reviving it. She turned away.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I don't have any pain." She said it through her teeth.

Sephiroth could not believe what he was hearing. The same lie, even now. He took a step closer and stood over her, growing angrier. "Oh really, now. Do you think I'm blind? Do you think I can't tell?" His voice became low and dangerous. "You lie to me like that every day, every _single_ day, Aerith."

"And what is it to you?!" she said savagely, her green eyes burning.

Sephiroth swallowed. The room seemed to shimmer. The weight of all their unspoken words, their past, hung in the air like the crest of an immense wave. At any moment now it would be crashing down around their ears. There was still time to avert it, he could say nothing, leave the room, anything. Damn her. She had left it completely within his hands.

Ignoring her insult, Sephiroth looked at her sternly and took a step closer, towering over her. "You must stop this. Do not deny what you feel. Do not lie to me ever again."

Aerith squeezed her eyes shut, her mouth twisting, her voice rising and breaking as her grief finally overcame her and the tears began anew.

"The pain was your gift, Sephiroth. Do you remember? I will know it with every breath that I will ever take; every day of this useless, meaningless life!" She stared at him, her face a tight grimace of rage; tears tracked down her cheeks but she did not try to wipe them away. She took two shallow breaths through her teeth and continued.

"I must endure it, on and on…everything I loved is gone and I cannot rest, I can never rest…and it was you who gave all of this to me!" She drew back her hand to slap him but then changed her mind and twisted away. "I hate you, I hate this, I hate all of this..." She sobbed it over and over into the copper bowl of the sink.

Sephiroth looked at her, at her thin back shaking with pain and misery. His thoughts swirled violently around the memory he had of her death. It was hard to remember anything clearly, about that time. There had been voices, then, hundreds of chittering voices that had bled their power into everything, choking him off, drowning out his reason. There had been a girl, he remembered, only a small girl in a dun pink dress. It all seemed so surreal, as if it hadn't really been her at all, but he knew that it was the truth. She had fallen to her knees when he had driven Masamune through her back; her body crumpled senselessly on the floor as her life gushed out in a flood of pain inside her. And then the voices rose up shrieking in his head like a storm, in an unholy cacophony of triumphant sound that burned his brain with pain and joy. Jenova had always loved death, and most of all the brutal death of Cetra. Sephiroth forcibly pushed the memory away before it swallowed him whole. _I never wanted you, never wanted this_, he said in his mind to Hojo, to the ghost of Jenova, to himself. Surely the only reason he had been created could not have been to bring such suffering…

Aerith still hung on the lip of the stone ledge, sobbing. Her body was hunched forward, she looked small and lost and utterly wretched. It reminded him of something he could not place. Without thinking he took a step closer and gently placed his hands on her, one on each shoulder. He had a hundredth of a second, just enough to register the warmth of her skin through her thin robe, before she realized what he was doing.

At his touch Aerith jumped and spun round, striking him across the face, once, twice, as hard as she could. Sephiroth seized her by the wrists to stop her from striking him again, and lifted her up until the tips of her toes danced on the stone floor. She shrieked madly, twisting in his arms, scrabbling and clawing like a wild creature, fighting to get away.

"Aerith! Aerith stop it! I won't hurt you."

Her eyes had the blind, crazed look of a rabid dog. Suddenly, he felt a knifing hot pain on the side of his face and then Aerith fell out of his grasp and sat down, hard, on the floor. Once she recovered her senses she scrabbled away from him, finally collapsing in a sobbing miserable heap in the dust beside one of the armchairs.

Sephiroth touched his burning face. She had bitten him, just hard enough to break the skin and it was bleeding. He dipped the corner of his sleeve in the sink and held it to the cut, sighing deeply. He shouldn't have done it, touched her like that, uninvited. He was an utter, utter fool to think she might have reacted otherwise. He stood and waited a few long minutes, trying to figure out what to do.

Gradually Aerith gathered herself together and sat crosslegged, hiding her face. Still swallowing sobs, she got up and picked the kettle up from the floor. Then she just stood and wept silently, with her sleeve pressed to her face.

Sephiroth watched her, unable to comfort her, unable to walk away.

"Aerith," he said at last, as calmly and softly as he knew how, "Aerith, look at me." She shook her head. Finally, taking great care not to accidentally brush against her, Sephiroth reached over and took the dangling kettle out of her hand. She let him.

"Come with me. Sit by the fire." He took a step toward the armchairs, then looked back at her. She didn't seem to be moving, or even aware that he was there at all.

He said her name again.

"Aerith. Please. Walk with me now. Let me help you." He held out his hand to her, not unaware of the bitter irony in the gesture. Held out to her, palm up and open, it looked like a perfectly welcoming hand, like any mans' hand, not one that had slaughtered hundreds of men, women, children, slit their throats like lambs. Without a glance or word, Aerith, still sobbing quietly into her sleeve, walked past him toward the hearth and balled herself up into one of the chairs.

"Don't touch me, ever again," she said.

Sephiroth sighed tightly. At least he had tried to be, what was the word? Courteous. And it was better if one was courteous. Wordlessly, Sephiroth set about cleaning the mess on the floor and repacking the kettle for a fresh pot of tea. When it had finished steeping he set the kettle and two earthenware cups on the spindly table between them. He poured a cup for each of them, taking one for himself and placing the other in front of her. Aerith stared at the fire with vacant, haunted eyes.

"Drink. You'll feel better. I will join you, just in case you have any further doubts of my intentions."

She took the cup in front of her. They sat in silence, each absorbed in their private thoughts, drinking their tea. An hour passed.

"I would like a bath," Aerith said at last, getting up. She looked at over at him as if it were painful. She caught sight of the oozing bite on his jaw.

"I am sorry, for all of this…I don't know what came over me…I just don't know what to do…I mean…" She took a deep breath. "Why are we here? What are we here for?" Her face began to crumple, tears squeezing out of the corners of her eyes, but she caught it, and stared over his shoulder at the wall behind him.

"Aerith, I don't know."

She worried at the edge of her robe, rubbing the fabric nervously. Her voice was breaking. "Do you know what the Gate said to me, as I returned?" She clenched her teeth, holding back the tears. "'Go'. That's all. Just,'Go'. No reasons why, no directions. What am I supposed to do, with that?" She sniffed, the tears finally breaking and running down her face. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, what do you care? What does it even matter?"

He started to say something to her but she just turned and fled from the room, wiping her face with the back of her sleeve. He did not see her for the rest of the day. Later, as the clock told him that night was drawing to a close, Sephiroth heard her weeping quietly behind her curtain.

When Aerith appeared the next morning, she looked thinner and the color had gone out of her skin, but she did not speak of what had happened. The long dark weeks of the winter night passed into the summer midnight sun as each of them kept their silence.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

It was good to get away, at least for a little while, Aerith thought as she clambered up the face of a rocky cave wall. A lidded basket bobbed against her hip, tethered by a red scarf she had tied across her shoulders. It dripped a dark watery line onto her skirts and flecked the rocks below her as she moved.

Sephiroth had been out hunting early that morning, she had woken to find him kneeling on the floor in front of the fire in the main room, expertly gutting ptarmigans with his ivory handled knife. Something in the overly careful way he was handling the blade, and his gentle expression filled her with rage. It was almost as if he pitied them, as if he were capable of an emotion like that. She looked at the soft bodies of the lifeless birds, their sweet black eyes, half closed now, and dainty feathered feet. A few of their peppery feathers tumbled over the stone floor toward her. Suddenly, she felt hemmed in, choked by the stone walls and the rising smell of entrails. Without any explanation she had turned from him, crammed her feet into her old worn boots, threw on her coat, slung her basket over one shoulder, grabbed her staff, and stalked out the door. She heard Sephiroth begin to ask her where she was going right before she had slammed the door shut.

For a while she wandered aimlessly, not caring where she went just as long as it kept her travelling away from where she had started. The gray shale around her gradually gave way to glittering white calcite. She had nicknamed this region 'The White Havens', since she often found herself there when she wanted to get away. Aerith peered inside a narrow crevice between two slabs of crystalline rock and realized that it went back much further than it appeared, and stepped in to investigate. At the back of a passage just high enough for her to stand in was a small chamber, completely covered in clear sparkling crystals. Water ran from a cleft in the ceiling and trickled into a small but deep pool about the size of a washbasin. What was in the pool that made her botanist's heart leap with unexpected pleasure. Delicate and featherlike, a species of brilliant waterweed waved in the pool and clambered up the wall. She had never seen anything like it before. Aerith knelt at the water's edge, dipped in her hand, and brought up some of the lower fronds to examine. The sharp crystals on the lip of the pool bit into her knees; she shifted her weight from side to side uncomfortably. The leaves in her palm were a deep magenta and faded to turquoise at the tips. Glowing dots of phosphorescence travelled down the length of them. She stroked them and they dimmed, then slowly began to brighten again. Aerith drew in her breath. They were absolutely gorgeous. She must have them for her garden.

Now she was almost there, her dripping basket full of plants and roots. Just ahead was the familiar gray stone column that resembled an enormous elephant's foot. She gave it an affectionate pat as she passed, and started up the narrow twisted path to a cleft in the rock. She squeezed herself though and took a breath. This was the hardest part. There was just enough room to stand, the ground suddenly falling away into a deep pit. The walls tapered, leaving an hourglass shaped aperture with its narrowest point being just as wide across as her palm. To get across, she would have to lean our over the void as far as she could, brace herself with her hands, and lift herself through the narrow opening to a small ledge on the other side. Aerith placed one hand on the cool gritty stone. Her ribs twinged painfully as she pushed herself up and slowly maneuvered herself to the other side. Only when her feet touched the ground again could she take another breath. It wasn't far, now, but she'd have to crawl. She heard water falling, chiming on metal, and smiled in the dark. She felt the stone that was brushing the top of her head suddenly disappear. Aerith pulled herself to her feet, and tugged the basket out after her. She was in a round stone chamber that was pure white and sparkling. There was no need for materia to see; the walls were festooned with glowing plants.

This was it, her haven. A rivulet of water cascaded down the far wall, collecting in a shallow pool before running over and out through a deeper cleft in the floor. A tree made out of scrap metal stood in the pool, the falling water made a chiming sound as it fell through its twisted leaves. There was a low, wide bench next to the pool, made out of stacked stones. Aerith dragged her basket next to the pool and sat on the bench to catch her breath. Almost imperceptibly, by gradual degrees, the leaves of the plants began to turn toward her, their ethereal light strengthening.

Aerith smiled. Even though her connection with the Planet was cut, and she could no longer hear or sense them, somehow they still seemed to recognize her. She breathed in the green fragrance, and listened to the water dancing on the metal tree. She thought of that other garden, the one in Midgar, with the rich black earth hidden under the rotting floorboards of the church, the clouds of yellow-white lilies. Sighing, she thought of her friends. Where were they now, and what were they doing? As each day in this dark place slipped by, her memories of them were becoming more and more faded. She couldn't remember what Tifa's voice sounded like any more, or Cloud's either. Wherever they were, she hoped they were happy.

Aerith got up and started unpacking her transplanted specimen, spreading out the long ropy leaves on the white stone floor. She sat back down on the stone bench and pulled off her boots, rolling up her pants to just above her knees. She gathered up the wet and dirty root ball in her arms and waded into the pool. The water was icy and she puffed and picked up her feet, moving as fast as she possibly could toward the metal tree. Shivering, the tips of her fingers already paling, she plunged the root ball at the base of the tree. She searched in the water for the long trailing leaves of the plant, and twisted them up onto the metal armature. Her feet were numb as she ran back toward the shore.

Aerith sat on the bench and quickly unrolled her pant legs, blotting the moisture from her skin. She pulled on her boots and hugged her knees to her chest and rubbed her shins, waiting to be warm. Aerith thought of Tifa again, conjuring up a vision of dark brown hair, darker brown eyes. She was probably married now, or at least had a long string of suitors. Aerith smiled. Tifa had never had a problem attracting as many men as she wanted, not like her. Perhaps she was running her own bar somewhere, a nice place, maybe somewhere tropical. Aerith squeezed her knees tighter as a twinge of sadness ran through her. Even if she could get out of this place, and somehow find them again, would Tifa or any of her old friends even recognize her, or believe that she was who she said she was? Aerith sighed. The world had changed, had gone on without her, and even if she could somehow rejoin it, nothing would never be the same again.

She sat for a while, her cloak drawn close around her, lost in memories of the past. Cold seeped into her and her stomach began to rumble painfully. She rose unwillingly, irritated with herself. Why hadn't she thought to grab something to eat? She gathered her basket, shook off the remaining moisture, and slung it over her shoulder. Sometimes she thought she could just live here, in this place, by herself. She didn't really need Sephiroth for anything, after all, and he hardly needed her. But somehow she kept coming back. Why? Why was this so? The question dogged her has she wove her way upwards through the fields of white rock. What did all of it mean? Had the Planet given her a chance to make things right and she had missed it? Did she do the right thing?

When Aerith finally returned home, Sephiroth was drinking tea, having just finished a meager meal of salted fish and yams. He did not ask her where she had been, only ran his eyes over her, to confirm that she was whole. There was a plate of food left out for her. It was a copy of his own, not ptarmigan, mercifully. Aerith settled herself into her chair, picked up the plate, and put it on her lap. Sephiroth got up from his chair and poured her a glass of tea. He set it on the table for her to take. She looked at the glass, the steaming liquid shimmering in it, and her throat closed.

"Thank you," she said. Sephiroth seemed surprised.

"You're welcome."

She took the tea and drank it.

"Is there any hope?" Aerith asked, quietly. Her voice was grainy from disuse.

It was a strange sort of question. Sephiroth took a long while to answer her.

"I want to believe that there is," he said softly, looking into the fire. He stretched out his hand, flexed it painfully. The wolf bite in his palm was still open and raw. Three months time had not improved it. No matter what he did, it would not heal completely. "But," he added sternly, "some things can only be carried. There is nothing to be done for them."

"Do _you _hope?"

He said nothing. The answer burned in his chest like a jewel.

A few moments passed.

"Is it better, do you think, to be merciful, or just?"

She was dancing around something; it irritated him.

"I do not wish to debate with you justice and mercy. You already know which I choose, which one you have chosen. Say what you want to say. All of it."

Aerith snapped her eyes up to meet his. "Are you certain?" she said it like a threat.

"You know that I am." He looked at her steadily. A pocket of sap ignited in one of the driftwood logs, popping loudly.

A long second passed and at last she began to speak, her eyes looking somewhere far away, then up to him, burning. Back and forth, past to present.

"I watched you, you know. On the shores of the Lifestream. I waited. For nearly three days. You were unable to speak, to even articulate your pain. Oh, how you suffered…but I'm sure you remember at least some of it." She spat the words angrily but then began to falter. "It took me that long to decide: should I avenge or forgive, kill or heal?"

Aerith held her breath, remembering. He had been so cold, like a stone at the bottom of an icy stream. She had gathered his long elegant body onto her lap and held him to her breast, imparting her warmth to him. All that night he shook against her, blind and helpless, his trembling fingers twining in her hair, crying the same name over and over…

Aerith came back to herself. She looked up at him, the expression in her eyes an odd mixture of tenderness and grief and rage.

Sephiroth looked at her. "It is clear you regret your choice. You should have avenged yourself. I would have." His voice was low and threatening, but smooth like polished marble. He stared pointedly at her until she looked away. It did not take long.

"But…you could not help what you were any more than I could help what I was…what I am. Or do you disagree?" Aerith's voice trembled.

Sephiroth remained silent. She could be right, he knew. Perhaps they had both just been pawns, set up by fate to blindly play out the roles assigned to them.

"Nevertheless, you should have put me down," He said at last, and meant it. "There could at least have been some justice for you, and for the Planet."

"But, in the end it would have done no good, would not have solved anything, or made it right," Aerith said, swallowing hard.

"Platitudes. You cannot tell me that it would not have _felt_ right. So you say you chose the path to heal and forgive. But we both know you will never truly forgive me, even if in your finer moments you want to."

Aerith put her hands to her mouth and turned away, unwilling to face his penetrating eyes or the stark ugliness of the truth that he spoke. "I wish I could…I want to…I just…can't," She whispered in the secret space behind her hands, just forming the words with her mouth, too quiet for him to hear. Then she gasped violently, and her hands went to her breastbone. The bones inside her chest were suddenly on fire, pain running down her sides and deep into her pelvis, nailing her into the chair. She looked down, breathing fast.

Sephiroth looked at her sternly.

"You are hurting again. Do _not_ lie."

Aerith pressed her hands harder to her chest and belly, whispering a fast and desperate spell.

"Yes, it is true," she said between gasps. She looked at him with a wry smirk. "Some things can only be carried." She looked away. "There is nothing to be done."

"Tell me about your pain," he asked her at last, wanting to change the subject to one more practical, "perhaps there is something I can do if I understand it more."

She dabbed at her eyes. "I don't think you can help me."

"Oh, really," he said, this time more amused than irritated at her incredible stubbornness. "Was there someone else you had in mind, who could?"

She was quiet for a while. She picked up her teacup and drank a sip, put it down, then picked it up again just as rapidly and repeated the motion.

"But do you really want to hear-"

"Yes. You know it."

His strong answer brought her up short. Sephiroth noticed her hands were shaking. Perhaps she was finally going to tell the truth. He could see her now, dancing on the edge, trying to decide if by telling him the simple fact of her pain she was setting herself up to be the lamb among wolves, if she could afford to trust him that much.

"It is worst when I first wake up," she said at last, her words tumbling out of her on a long breath. She kept her eyes riveted on the fire. "It's a crushing sort of pain that aches and aches and never goes away. As if my spine was continually filled with poison and it leaks out into my chest." She closed one hand into a fist and held it just under her sternum to illustrate. "Not much eases it for long, not even magic, although warmth helps, and of course, your tea. Though, when it's like this, nothing helps." She smirked sadly, glanced up at him for a second, then away. "They should have made you a doctor."

"ShinRa had only meant for me to be more efficient in my work."

He sat for a while, quietly thinking. Her offhand suggestion had given him an idea. "Aerith, what if something could be done?"

She stared into the fire. "Even the most powerful magic only helps for a little while." Her eyes were wet, with dark circles under them.

Sephiroth thought. At last he stood up, finishing the last of his tea in one neat toss of his head.

"I will be going out," he said.

"Where are you going?"

"To the merchants'." He paced back to his room, returning dressed in his heavy parka, and then began to bundle on the layers against the cold. "I will be back in six hours," he said, and then Aerith heard the heavy outer door slam and the clang of the bolt wedging into place.

"It will never end, no matter what you do," she whispered to herself.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

The sun was blindingly bright on the surface of the snow. Sephiroth paused and squinted up again at the piercing light. He picked up his pace. Without a sled or Chocobo to carry him, he was forced to travel by foot. For several miles now he had traveled with only the sound of his breathing and the shushing rhythm of his snowshoes breaking the hard crust of the snowpack. The sky was a brilliant blue dome above him, cloudless and vast; the white field of ice below stretched to the horizon without end. Silvery frost clung to the cowl wrapped over his face and tipped the thick ruff of fox fur on the hood of his coat. Only his eyes were visible, protected from the unrelenting glare by a pair of clear yellow goggles. At last, coming over the crest of a ridge, he saw the familiar cluster of wagons belonging to the merchant. A few figures moved among them, tending to the animals.

The merchants' many dogs never barked when he entered camp, or jumped and wagged their tails in greeting like they did when Aerith accompanied him. They only sat and looked at him, lowering their eyes sheepishly when he walked past, or panted nervously in the cold shadows of the wagons. Even the great wooly yaks that pulled the merchants' wagons paused in their eating, stamping irritably and whickering to each other. On this day Sephiroth entered the merchants camp the same way he always did, under a pall of eerie silence.

The merchant and his workers had been camped at this location for several weeks. Why him and his retinue returned to this forsaken piece of frozen land, again and again, randomly, a few times a year, was a mystery he never revealed, although he was certainly gregarious enough on every other subject under the sun. From his sometimes cagey behavior and the make of the silver pistol at his hip, Sephiroth suspected it had something to do with more than trade in common goods.

Heavy crimson mats of felted yak fur, dense enough to turn a blade, were draped over the merchants' wagons, to conserve the heat of the wood fired stoves onboard. On the entrance side of the largest wagon the mats were held up by long poles driven down into the snowpack, forming a tent-like antechamber. A twisted chimney of riveted iron stuck out of the top of the wagon like an accusing finger, belching steam.

"Oy! I thought it was you, Prince. It's too damn quiet out there to be anyone else." The merchant had flung open the gaily painted wooden door of his wagon, smiling broadly. He was swaddled in furs, they were stretched taut over his impressive belly. The pistol jammed into his belt flashed in the harsh sun. He chewed noisily on the mouthpiece of a long pipe, his stubby fingers stained with tobacco.

Sephiroth nodded to him in greeting, "Baral." He felt slightly guilty, greeting him by his name, as he would not give his own. Determined to have a name to call him, from their first meeting Baral had dubbed him simply "The Prince", as he thought he had a courtly look. Aerith became "The Lady" or "her Ladyship". Being a man of secrets himself, Baral had been content to leave it at that.

"Well, come in, come in, before I freeze to death. I'm sure you'd like to have a look at what I've got, it's not much this go around, I'm afraid." The merchant waved him into the dark interior of the wagon. Sephiroth climbed the half dozen steps up into it and shut the door behind him. From far away he heard a dog barking, as if to sound the all-clear.

The interior of Barals' wagon was warm and smoky, smelling strongly of lamp oil, tobacco, and smoked meat. Thick rugs covered the floor, their bright designs blurred with age and dust. Silk cushions were scattered in no particular order, adding their colors to the already chaotic scene.

"Have a seat." Baral gestured to a heap of colorful cushions. Sephiroth sat, folding his long legs into the lotus position. Already sweltering in the close heat of the wagon, he pulled off his goggles and shrugged off his coat.

"It has been a run of good weather, hasn't it?" The merchant's back was to him, he was filling a pair of giltwork teaglasses from the battered brass samovar at his elbow. He handed one of them to Sephiroth, who held it before him but did not drink. Baral flopped down on his own pile of cushions and peered at him, balancing his glass of tea on his prodigious belly.

Sephiroth scowled. He hated this part. He was expected to make conversation, extensive conversation.

"The weather has been tolerable," he said, and took a sip of his tea. It was just as chewy and oversweet as he remembered it. "But I do not wish to talk about the weather. I need to get to business."

Baral laughed heartily, lines crinkling his face as he grinned. "Oh that's just like you, Prince, just like you. There is always time for business, first we talk. But since you won't talk, perhaps you'll be kind enough to listen to an old man natter." He drew in his breath as if to launch into a long harangue.

Sephiroth set his teaglass down sharply. His Mako eyes flared with green fire.

"I do not have time for this."

"Time? Of course you have time. You young people, always rushing off-"

"Her Ladyship is very ill," Sephiroth barked.

His words brought Baral up short. Baral sat forward, spilling tea down the front of his fur jacket. "Forgive me." He looked down at the floor, then up again. "What do you need? More moss? Opia? Opia is really the best I've got."

"No. I need something better. I know you have something better." Baral was forever hinting of his hidden stash of impossibly rare and valuable relics that just might be available for the right price. Sephiroth had taken all of it as idle talk, but today he was eager to test and be sure. He reached in his pocket and drew out a paper packet folded from the page of a book. He placed it on the floor between them. "I will make it worth your while. See for yourself." Baral bent forward and opened the packet. Inside glittered a cluster of deep blue gems, the smallest of which was the size of the merchant's thumbnail.

Baral caught his breath. "These are certainly beautiful…"

The merchant turned the gems over and over, held them up to the light.

"So, do you have something that would help her, or not?" Sephiroth demanded, trying to hurry him along.

"Well…"

Sephiroth watched greed and prudence struggle mightily in Baral's face. Finally, Baral sighed, shaking his head with great emotion.

"I cannot do it."

Sephiroth almost choked on his disappointment. "If you have something you must give it to me. You must." It was all he could think of to say. Murderous rage grew in his heart at the thought of coming back to Aerith empty handed. _It would be too easy, old man, to cut you down_, he thought. _Do not tempt me._

"Is it a matter of money?" he snarled, digging in the inside pocket of his coat. He pulled out a stack of bills and tossed it at the merchant's feet. Baral did not move, did not even blink. "Still not enough?" Sephiroth demanded angrily, "I have more."

The merchant did not answer. He was looking at Sephiroth, shocked at the sudden, unprecedented, display of emotion. Finally, frowning deeply and shaking his head, he set his tea on the floor.

"Wait," he said. His voice was weary. He got up and headed toward the rear of the wagon. Sephiroth heard him rummaging around, and then the sound of locks opening, three in a row. A few minutes later Baral returned with something in his hand that Sephiroth could not see.

"I will give you this, but you must listen to me first."

Sephiroth relaxed. Fine. He would listen to this old fool's story, whatever it took.

Baral settled back down in his nest of cushions, leaned forward, and placed a small round container on the floor between them. It was carven out of iridescent stone, the two halves of the container meeting in some kind of silvery metal. Something within it shone faintly with its own pale light.

"They call this 'Tears of the Moon'. I have been saving it for over thirty years." He cleared his throat, and then continued. "There was a girl, then, well, I was sweet on her. She lived in a little town in Jungana Prefecture. She had been sick for a while-with some kind of wasting disease. I searched for a cure-the five points of the Planet, I searched. Well, anyway, this comes from Ajit, the forgotten capital. It did not cure her, but the last few weeks of her life were painless and full of beautiful dreams." He looked up at Sephiroth and in his crinkled old eyes was the sorrow of a young boy. "Take it," he said, the corner of his mouth twisting upwards in a wry grin, "It's a young man's prerogative to be passionate." He pulled the packet of gems toward himself. "Although I will take these beauties if you don't mind, as payment. If you ask me, you're getting the better end of the deal; you had to listen to the sad story of a sentimental old man."

Baral blinked and the sorrow evaporated from his face, replaced by his usual mischievous expression. He tossed the wad of bills back at him. "But unless you have other things you wanted, you might want to hang on to these at least a little while longer."

Night had fallen by the time Sephiroth was on his way back, heavy with goods. He tramped over the crusted snow, his way made a little easier by following the track he had made. Above him the black sky blazed with aurora, shimmering plumes of light that danced from horizon to horizon. Their cold beauty was lost on him; he kept his eyes on the ground, straining toward home. In the inside pocket of his coat, just over his heart, the stone container rested like a warm coal. Doubts nagged at him. For all the trouble and expense he was going to, would it even work? Aerith had said that even magic did not help for long. Perhaps Baral's story was just a nice bit of selective memory, grown sweeter with the years and the memory of a lost boyhood love. People did have a strange way of letting things like that cloud their judgment.

Half a mile of the frozen waste passed under his feet while he considered it. Suddenly, he stopped, and looked up into the burning sky. His breath rose before him; a thin puff of steam that quickly vanished in the biting air. He had been going over in his mind the details of the ritual that accompanied the Tears of the Moon and suddenly realized, with dawning horror, that he had somehow overlooked its central feature.

He would have to touch her for it to work, and not just once, not transiently. He had to write the words of the ritual, character by character, down the entire length of her back, from the place where her spinal cord began at the back of her neck, down her spine, to her sacrum. That was the way the magic worked. There was no way around it. She could not do it herself. He had heard Baral say this when he had explained the ritual to him, but somehow had not made the connection that he would have to be the one to do it.

Aerith would never agree to such a thing. She was uncomfortable with him even looking at her, and flinched at incidental contact. In the early days, when their daily survival had been tenuous at best, she had refused even to lean on him for warmth, preferring instead to shiver alone in her thin robes. And now, after what had happened when he had only tried to comfort her…

A muscle in his jaw twitched. All he was trying to do would soon come to nothing. He looked up at the vast sky. Miles above him the aurora continued its fiery dance as it had been doing for millions of years and would continue to do a million more after he was gone. Sephiroth continued on through the freezing dark, more disheartened than ever.

Aerith was sitting in much the same way that he had left her, except she had changed into her nightdress and robe, her legs curled beneath her, the wild glory of her hair spilling over her shoulders and curtaining her face. Her eyes looked even more tired and puffy, as if she had recently cried. He called to her quietly, to let her know that he had returned, but she only nodded sadly to him and would say nothing. On the table remained the plate with the dried out husk of her yam and a curled rack of white fishbones.

"I've brought you something," he said, kneeling before her. He showed her the container in his palm. "Do you know what this is?"

She roused from her lethargy, excitement and interest lighting up her face. He held out the container and put it into her hands. Aerith turned it over, rubbing her thumb over the characters inscribed on the bottom of it. She said something under her breath in a language he had never heard before. She brought the box close to her face and bowed her head over it for a fraction of a second. Sephiroth felt that if he had not been there she might have kissed it, like a relic. At last she held it on her lap, her hands folded around it like the petals of a soft white lily.

"So it is real. Tears of the Moon," she said breathlessly. "I didn't know any of this still existed. This is very old."

"Baral says that it will ease your pain."

"It will not cure me, but if anything could help, this might. It is from my people."

"Do you know how it is used?" he asked, looking at the floor. He waited.

She hadn't considered it either. He looked up just in time to watch her face crumple and fall. She was silent for so long, Sephiroth wondered if she would answer him at all. When she finally did speak, it was in a whisper. "Yes, I know."

"Will you..," he struggled with finding the right words, finally settling on something that he thought sounded as vague as possible, "allow it?"

She sighed deeply. "I have little choice."

Sephiroth looked at the container in her lap. Aerith covered it with the palm of her hand and looked away. On her face was a pained expression that confirmed his worst suspicions. She hated the whole idea of it, loathed him with every ounce of her being.

Sephiroth got up from the floor, turning away from her. Of course she would hate him, he reminded himself to quell the irrational hurt he felt, it was simple cause and effect, it was logical. People despised murderers, those who had hurt them. Her refusal to forgive, her personal hatred of him, was a consequence he deserved. He could not hope otherwise.

"Let me know when you are ready," he said, quietly.

Aerith looked down at the container, then carefully picked it up, feeling its solidness, its weight, and placed it on the table. Pain twinged under her ribs.

"I will," she said dryly, clenching her teeth.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Weeks passed like river water. Aerith did not mention the Tears again, although it was clear that her pain continued to bother her.

Above ground, the brief arctic summer was under way, which meant temperatures just below freezing and an abundance of game. Sephiroth hunted as often as he could, drying the extra meat in preparation for the long bitter months ahead.

He had just returned home with a brace of fat ptarmigans one afternoon when he noticed something was wrong. One of the armchairs was lying on its side, an upended plate of food beside it. There was a broken teacup on the stones of the hearth and the teapot itself was nowhere to be found. Muffled whimpering came from Aerith's room.

He called for her. She did not answer, so he stood outside her door and called again. This time she answered him weakly.

"Sephiroth?"

He brushed aside her curtain. She was lying on the floor, as white as paper. The robe wrapped around her was damp, and her forehead glistened with sweat. The teapot was on the floor of her room, drained. It looked like she had tried to chew some of the bark inside it as well, and, judging by the puddle on the floor, it had made her sick.

"I think I fainted." Aerith sobbed and turned over, panting. She pressed her forehead to the cold floor.

Sephiroth breathed a powerful healing spell over her even though he knew it would only help temporarily at best.

"Aerith. There is not much I can offer you. You know the options. Opia or the Tears."

"Opia…makes me sick… I don't think I could keep it down…it would be a waste." She panted loudly, then clenched at her belly, groaning.

"Aerith, what about the Tears?"

"No, I shouldn't…"

Sephiroth flared with anger and frustration. Even now, in agony, she refused him. "How much longer can you suffer?"

"I don't know, I don't know…" She put her head on her arm and rocked it back and forth.

"What do you want of me, then?" He got up to leave.

"Please, don't go."

"I'll be back."

He returned with a cup of water.

"Here," he said, putting it down near her head, "get the taste out of your mouth."

She took a tiny sip.

"I can't do this. I'm not strong," she said at last. She panted for a few long minutes. Sephiroth watched her.

"The Tears," she said at last, "I agree to them. Only, let me bathe. I feel disgusting."

She didn't seem able to stand, much less be able to bathe herself.

"Will you need assistance?"

The look she gave him said that she would rather die than submit to such an indignity.

"Call if you need help," Sephiroth said, looking grim. She would not call. He would find her only after she drowned.

He watched her slowly gather herself up into a ball, then ease herself up onto her knees, clinging to the bed for support.

"You are doing enough," she said, waving him off. "I will call when I am ready for you."

It had been a long hour. Aerith had finally finished bathing and was waiting for him. Sephiroth stood in front of the curtained threshold to her room, passing the small stone vessel that held the Tears of the Moon from one hand to another, back and forth, doggedly resisting the impulse to pace. Aerith's shadowed profile danced on the fabric of the curtain, wavering as the light from the fire within shifted. He could tell by the shadow that she was sitting on her bed, looking down. Only her head was clearly demarcated, the rest of her was swaddled in the coverlet and undistinct. He watched for several moments as she continued to stare, almost motionless except for the subtle movements of her breathing. Perhaps he should enter now, when she had seemed to resign herself. He took a step forward, reached his hand out to move the thick fabric of the curtain aside.

His heart was hammering wildly in his throat, his breathing speeding up to keep pace with it. This was a new thing, too, being nervous. It was extremely disagreeable. He tried to rationalize the way he felt, as if by mentally dissecting it would make it go away. What had he to feel nervous about? It was only a woman waiting for him on the other side of the curtain, only Aerith. She could do him no harm.

It was not her he was worried about, he decided, it was himself. The last time he had been in a situation like this…In his mind's eye flashed a vision of Morimoto's lover, the red layers of her slashed throat lolling open like an obscene grin, the ugly spray of arterial blood on the ceiling. There were probably more, many more, that he didn't even remember. He squeezed his eyes closed.

Oh, Aerith. He was unarmed but it would not be a difficult thing to crush the life out of her, or stop her heart with a single well placed strike to her sternum or temple. He could go mad, lose control, and then it would be too late. Sephiroth bit his tongue sharply, to stop the train of horrible images that assaulted him. No, it would not be like that. This time it was different. He was free from all of that now, truly free. He had to believe it.

Sephiroth took in a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, very slowly. He leaned forward until he felt the coarse weave of the fabric against his face. For a second he focused on only that, as if it were the only thing in the universe.

"I am here now," he said quietly, trying to ignore the tremor that had suddenly come over him, the strange buzzing in his head. Aerith's shadow jumped, but she kept her head down. He brushed the curtain aside and stepped into her room.

As he had surmised, Aerith was sitting on her bed crosslegged, the coverlet wrapped around her. She clutched the silk fiercely to her chest, her knuckles white. She had just gotten out of the bath; the copper tub was still sitting on the floor by the hearth, half full of murky, sweet smelling water. A Fire materia glowed dimly at the bottom of it, keeping the water warm.

Aerith had her eyes closed, her teeth clenched behind her lips as if preparing to bear intense pain. She was breathing deep but fast, too fast. Sephiroth carefully sat down just behind her on the edge of the bed.

"Do not breathe so quickly, you will faint."

Aerith nodded, but her breathing came even faster.

She would not heed anything he said at this point, he knew, she was trying her best to be numb, retreat into a place inside herself where he could not follow. It was miserable to see. She was preparing the place where his evil could fall and there would be no memory. He swallowed hard. He must do this quickly, before she tired herself into complete exhaustion.

Sephiroth knelt behind her. Her hair, loose and unbound, trailed down her back like a shroud, tumbling out behind her onto the bed. Little ringlets and whorls of it, still damp from her bath, clung to the back of her neck and curled behind her ears. Grateful that she had her eyes closed so that she could not see how much he was shaking, Sephiroth gathered the heavy mass of her hair in his hands and lifted it, tucking it gently over her shoulder to trail in her lap. His hands felt stiff and awkward, as if his nerves were not understanding his brains' commands.

At his first touch she stiffened and pulled away, clenching her teeth, breath coming in short silent gasps. He put one hand on the side of her head and stroked her temple gently, tentatively, as he would a nervous Chocobo, trying to calm her.

She shook him off, shuddering. "Don't. Just do what you must do," she said. Her voice was sharp but it quavered.

Scowling sadly behind her back, Sephiroth returned to his task. The coverlet was still folded tightly around her and he opened it just enough to reveal the back of her neck and shoulders. The stone box was sitting on the bed and he picked it up, separating the two halves in one smooth motion. Inside was a sticky yellowish salve whose scent reminded him of the linden blossoms that bloomed in the woodlands around Junon. Pinpoints of light danced in the salve, twinkling like a small universe of stars. He retrieved a small gob of the stuff and smoothed it over his palms in a thin layer. It felt soothing to the wound in his hand, both cool and warm at once. Aerith had her eyes squeezed tightly shut, as if she was a sacrifice waiting for the blade to fall.

_Please_, Sephiroth prayed to no one, _let this work_. He laid his hands on the back of her neck. Aerith gasped, and trembled as if she had been stuck with a red hot poker. Sephiroth felt the muscles under his hands snap taut as they contracted, as her body went as rigid and tense as a guy wire.

"I won't hurt you," he murmured, beginning to rub her shoulders in slow rhythmic circles. The path where he touched glowed faintly, making her already pale skin dance with shivery light, like the aurora. He felt the delicate tick of her pulse, as light and quick as a birds', as he circled the delicate column of her neck with his hands. He reached up into her hairline to trace the first character of the ritual at her nape with the pads of his thumbs. He concentrated intently, focusing on completing the character's last swooping line correctly. As soon as he finished and had lifted his hands away from her, the Tears of the Moon flared to life on her skin, shining brighter and brighter until it seemed alive with pale phosphorescent flame.

Aerith's head dropped forward with a sigh as the substance hit her brain. A beautiful peace swept into her like a sudden tide, her mind filling with familiar gentle voices, her body full of lushness and music.

"Are you okay?" Sephiroth asked. He felt light headed, strangely out of control. He rubbed his palms together, feeling the fluid smoothness of the salve on them. Aerith did not answer him. Her eyes were still closed but there was a peaceful expression on her pink lips and her breathing had slowed. He placed his hands on her again and began to trace the second character on her skin, over the knobby bump that was her seventh cervical vertebrae.

Aerith was relaxing now, as the magic of the Ancients enveloped her, swallowing her pain in gorgeous pools of warmth. Under his hands, Sephiroth felt her muscles open and the tension melt out of her body. He moved down her back, calling each muscle by name to himself as he touched them, recalling the pathways of the nerves as they wove and twisted through the bony cagework of her spine, still knowing which ones, if stuck correctly, could cripple or kill. That knowledge was still there but now there was no death, no pain, only healing that flowed from his hands. Gently, he dipped down into her trapezius, the soft smooth place between her shoulder blades, tracing a character over it. Caught up in the incredible relief and no longer sensible of her surroundings or who was with her, Aerith sighed in euphoria, her exhalation drawn out into a soft cry. Sephiroth froze.

Her cry. It arrested him like nothing before. He had heard other women make sounds like that but now it was him that had caused it, had called it out of her. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. His mind reeled, drunk on the sensation and the warm glow of his newfound power. Scene after scene, the kind that were not in any way appropriate for him to be dwelling on, flashed in his minds' eye. Yes, it was wrong, and he was evil for even thinking it, but he wanted to give her more, to hear her call his name that way, to give to her until he could hear her calling it in delicious ecstasy. The last thought almost made him swoon. The space between them, the air in the room, seemed as if it were alive, singing with light and heat.

It was getting dangerous, much too dangerous, to be here with her, with the unknown power of the Tears addling his brain, amplifying his senses and who knew what else. He could not get out of control. He needed just to write the words, to complete the ritual, then run, hide, somewhere, anywhere, before this thing, this repulsive depraved hunger of his, won him beyond all chance of redemption. Sephiroth pulled open the coverlet without mercy, using a little more force than he had wanted to, exposing her entire back at once. Aerith gasped, more at the sudden change in temperature than at the exposure.

It was then that he saw it. The scar was the color of dried cherries, a wicked gash originating just to the left of her tenth thoracic vertebrae. Even in the rapidly extinguishing light of the dying fire he could see that there were other fainter scars that furled out from it in a star of knotted white whorls paler than her skin. They were old magic burns. Sephiroth ran his hands over them, reading them like Braille.

"Masamune," he whispered in horror. He didn't have to look to know that the scar had a partner on the other side of her, blossoming its own brutal flower just under her ribs. She had been skewered through the renal artery just as he had been taught to do, and consigned to a painful and certain death by internal hemorrhage. It was a brutal technique. Had she once been so dangerous, so despised, that she had warranted that sort of death? He stroked the scar, hating, hating himself for having put it there. He looked at the smooth curve of her waist, its gorgeous violin symmetry ruined. Death and pain, carven into her, irreparable. He put his hand over the scar, just to have it out of his sight. He breathed a healing spell into it. It faded into her and was gone, with no effect. He tried again and again, feverishly, trying more and more powerful spells with each attempt.

"Sephiroth…" Aerith said his name as if in her sleep. She attempted to look at him, forgetting to cover herself, and the crest of one smooth white breast began to rise over the horizon of the coverlet as she turned.

"No, don't look." He seized her shoulders and held her still, facing forward. He put his head down and swallowed. His eyes burned fiercely. If she looked at him now, it would be his undoing. He took a few heavy breaths.

Aerith squirmed. "You're hurting me."

Sephiroth looked at his hands as they gripped her naked shoulders and released her, leaving glowing prints on her pale skin. "I'm…I'm sorry. Don't look at me. I am almost done."

No matter what he felt, he must continue, he reminded himself. He focused on the task at hand, moving faster than he had before, tracing the words, the endless river of words that ran down her back. By the time he had finished the last sinuous character, its tail resting between the dimples of her sacrum, Aerith had fallen into a deep sleep.

Sephiroth watched her back rise and fall with her gentle breathing, just barely visible in the light of the guttering fire. The scar rose and fell as well, looking like a slash of black oil against her pale skin. He forced himself to examine it in all its awful sharpness.

Look, he told himself. Go ahead, you rotten bastard, look. It is the only thing you can do, what you were made for, to scar and wound and kill. Pain and death are the the only gifts you can ever bring to anybody. It is your birthright, after all, don't think you will ever completely escape it.

In her sleep Aerith shivered, goosebumps transiently forming on her skin. Sephiroth folded the coverlet back over her. Grasping her thickly swaddled body, he eased her back and then onto her side, trying to ignore the intensely unnerving sensation when the hot skin of her bare shoulder pressed against his jaw as he turned her. He sat beside her and watched her sleep, cradled softly in the eiderdown, her hair spilling out over the bed like a river of fire. There was nothing else to do now. His task had been completed. He wanted nothing more than to flee from her, and nothing more than to stay.

For a long long while he sat on the edge of the bed. Slowly the one feeble flame in the firegrate flickered and finally was snuffed out into red glowing ember. The room around him dissolved into a dim sweep of dark and light. He rubbed his fingers together, the sticky texture of the Tears melting in his body heat, and brought his hands up to his face. He inhaled deeply, smelling lindens and the wonderful familiar essence of Aerith's skin. Then he opened his eyes and looked again at where she lay. The characters and wherever he had touched were still glowing, they trailed up the dark curve of her back, then up to the place where the coverlet peeled back to reveal the first character shining at her nape like the moon behind a cloud.

The impulse seized him to touch her again, as if only by touching her could he know for certain that all that had transpired had been real. Absurd as the idea was, it needled at him and would not rest. Finally he considered it, his heart beginning to hammer again anew. What would it hurt, his mind raced feverishly, what would one little thing like that hurt? She wouldn't even remember it… His fingers crept out across the coverlet and found the glorious wash of her hair. He felt it, slowly, carefully, feeling its weight, the smoothness of its texture like rich cloth between his finger and thumb. Leaning over, he carefully brought a swath of it up to his face, breathing in its wondrous fragrance, feeling its silkiness on his nose, on his lips. Suddenly Aerith stirred, murmuring in her sleep.

Sephiroth pulled back, burning with shame and loathing. He turned away from her and sat on the edge of the bed. He hunched over as if he was in pain and clenched his knees with his hands, digging in with his nails to prevent them from wandering.

It was sickening. He could not control himself, how his body responded to her, the things he was feeling. Truly, he was no better than Hojo, than any depraved animal only acting out of its instincts. Sephiroth got up from the bed, burning and heady. He had to get out of here, away from this place. He threw an armload of wood on the struggling fire, much more than was necessary, then fled to the safety of his room.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Cold, yes, he wanted it to be cold. He stripped off his sweater and threw it in a direction, then crawled onto his bed. In one hand rattled a small tin box. He hated what he was about to do. But it was the only way. His body was a hot hard cage of throbbing need. He was and had done many horrible things but now he would not to give into the kind of depravity it demanded.

Sephiroth opened the box and felt for two smooth round seeds. He ground them between his teeth, trying not to stop as the sticky acrid bitterness of the Opia spread out over his tongue and the roof of his mouth. Soon, he thought, his vision already beginning to blur, soon he would sleep and forget this night and everything that had happened, the awful uncontrollable energy that it brought would be drugged out of him and he would be free of it in the morning. He pulled off his thin undershirt and the rest of his clothes and kicked them off the side of the bed. The damp icy air met his bare skin like frozen velvet. He threw the quilt over his body and lay on his back, shivering from cold and anxiety. He stared up into the blank black ceiling. The pads of his hands still glowed from the Tears. He rested them lightly on his chest, folding them over his heart. He blinked slowly, once, twice, images spooling out before him, merging with the present as the drug took him under. He could still smell her hair, her wonderful hair…

The room shone brighter and brighter, until it hurt to see. Instinctively, he twisted away from the light that burned him. Someone started talking, miles above him.

"I tell you Hojo, you need to hire someone, if you want it to survive." There was a pause as the speaker waited for her point to sink in. "Human infants need more than just feeding and changing, they also need to be handled, "cuddled", if you will. Remember the Chevovski experiment? The mortality was over ninety-five percent, and what was left was not workable." A pair of spectacled eyes looked down at him momentarily, the lenses flashing in the glare. There was a long silence.

"Why can't you do it, you are technically his mother."

"I already fulfilled my part of the bargain."

Unseen and unnoticed Sephiroth reached out into the violet glare of the UV light with his clumsy infant's hands, searching for something, anything, to hang on to.

"Hmm. " Another rounder pair of lenses flashed in the burning violet space above him. "I suppose I'll have to see what can be done. We can't lose our best specimen because of something so ridiculous, now can we?"

The shadows above him withdrew. The thick plastic cover was fitted over him and latched down. Alone in his incubator, Sephiroth squalled and thrashed in helpless rage. Eventually the overhead lights clicked off on their automatic twelve hour cycle, leaving him in darkness. When it was light again, the cover was withdrew from his incubator and a large shadow reached for him. He could not see who or what it was, and he screamed and screamed and screamed.

Something soft brushed his wrist and he opened his eyes. He was himself again, in his adult body, but he was still dreaming. He floated in a strange golden twilight that was waving with hair. It wrapped around him, lustrous and black, skeins of it, oceans of it. It covered his body like a shroud, caressing his skin like a warm wave. Weightless, moving as if he were underwater, Sephiroth drifted in dim space, swimming in the thick air, searching for something. The hair moved around him like a living being, drifting like fronds of seaweed in an undulating current. Suddenly a woman laughed gently, right in his ear. Warm breath splashed on the back of his neck, he could smell its fragrance like crushed greenwood and apples. When he turned he saw nothing but a flash of red sliding away like a serpent through the endless sea of black hair. He swam forward in pursuit but he found himself suddenly blind, turned upside down, and the woman laughed again, dark and musical.

"You cannot find me," she said in his ear, "But I can find you."

Silk swaddled his face, giving way to a clear white light and now he could see that she had covered his eyes with the immeasurably voluminous sleeves of her red kimono. A woman floated before him, an entire world in unto herself; the black sky was her dangerously intelligent hair waving, always in motion, the earth was her now billowing, now sinuous, red kimono. In this strange night her face was a glowing white moon, ghostly with light. Her eyes changed color with her every movement, sliding from black to green to red and then back again. Very slowly, she raised one hand to the crown of her head and took from it a small white pearl. Sephiroth watched the pearl in her fingers as it traveled out, down, never noticing that behind him her hair was furiously weaving, weaving itself together into a fabric blacker than black, a gate through which the cold light of a galaxy could be seen slowly turning…

The woman was holding the pearl out to him now, pressing it to his lips. Sephiroth took it in his mouth and swallowed it willingly.

"Now you are mine," she said to him, her green eyes flaring. Sephiroth seized her by the throat of her kimono, parting it and pulling it off in one fluid movement. He greedily kissed her bare shoulder. The taste of her skin was like cool milk.

"No," he said, "you are mine."

He heard her laugh again, as her hair twined around his head and cinched tight, covering his eyes. He was lost in a luscious world of blind sensation. He felt the dewy warmth of her skin pressing against his belly, the heat of her mouth on his neck, then his vision burst into radiant whiteness, as if he had been sucked into the heart of a neutron star. He tumbled like flotsam in the overwhelming tide, torn from her and lost.

He was cast into a new, vast space. The woman was nowhere to be found. There was nothing but indistinct darkness. He turned around. A cold presence was watching him. They stood around him in a circle, tall figures burning like cathedral candles.

"Son of the Stars." a legion of voices said, booming in his head. "Son of the Stars."

And then he woke up.

He was shivering in his bed. Sephiroth rolled over and groaned, his head pounding, the sour taste of Opia fermenting in his mouth. He groaned again, when he noticed the cold wetness of the sheets, sticky with his seed. He sat up, ashamed and disgusted with himself. He rubbed his gritty eyes with the back of his hand. The raw force of the dream still hung in him, and the longer he thought about it the more real all of it seemed.

The first woman, the voice, had been Lucretia. He was sure of it. They had used her eggs to create him, he had read in the files, but had partially denucleated them, inserting the Jenova genome instead. He was as genetically related to her as he was to any other anonymous human on the planet. For the person that she was, what he could remember, he was often glad this was the case.

The second woman was easy enough to dismiss as something his imagination had manufactured to deal with his baser needs, but the voices at the end... He shivered. Although he had never heard them before, they felt more real than any of it. Even now, awake, he could almost feel their presence. Son of the Stars. They had said it as if it were his name. What did it all mean, if anything?

His head pounded. That sort of unanswerable question could be dealt with later. Sephiroth scooped his sweater and pants up off the floor and pulled them on, wincing at the cold stiff fabric against his bare skin. He stood up, turned, then pulled the sheets off his bed, leaving them in a heap as he walked out the door.

Sephiroth drank freezing water in the dark. The house was silent. He looked at the clock. Nine hours had passed from the time that he had laid down. Aerith could be up at any minute.

He could not face her, not yet. He felt oddly transparent, as if his thoughts would be immediately read by her no matter how deeply he tried to bury them. There was no telling what she would remember about the night before, he realized, trying not to feel panicked. As far as he knew she would recall the whole sordid affair, every nuance of his lust-soaked touch coating her like filth. Whatever relief the Tears provided would be little solace, compared with that. Who knew what she would do. He needed to get out of here, just go somewhere else for a while, to clear his head. Sephiroth grabbed his parka and stalked out the door.

Miles above, up in the crystal cold air, dawn was just breaking. Sephiroth sat on a rocky outcropping and watched it come, the swiftly turning light turning the ice fields purple, then pink, then finally gold as the sun crested the mountains. The strong wind smelled of ice, only of ice. It felt good to breathe a lot of something that smelt like nothing, reminded him of nothing, held no memories. The sun climbed higher and shone white gold light in his eyes. Sephiroth stretched his hand out to it, blocking the glare, then stood up and stared into the light until his eyes watered. He looked down at his hand, flexed it. The Tears had healed the lingering wound in it completely, overnight, with nothing to show that it had been there at all. It was an unexpected gift. Somehow it made him feel a little better. Sephiroth took in one last deep breath of clean air, then turned and vanished back into the shelter of the caves.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

He returned to a house as silent as the one he left. He rebuilt the fire in the main grate and sat on the floor before it. He unwrapped a small bundle of dry oat cakes he had brought from the kitchen and ate them thoughtfully, one after the other.

At last there was a stirring from Aerith's room, what he had been waiting for. He heard her careful step approaching, and felt himself filling with dread. He had not thought of this, how he would feel after the ritual had been completed, how things might change between them. At the time he had thought that it would solve everything, if he could just get through it. Now he just wanted to get away, never look at her again. Sephiroth kept his eyes to the ground, nervous and guilty. She was standing next to him now, only three feet away. Light from the fire winked on the worn beading of her slippers.

"Sephiroth." Her voice was soft, but commanding.

He could ignore her no longer. Against his will he felt himself rise and look at her, meeting her eyes. He nodded to her in greeting.

"Aerith."

Something about her had changed overnight but he could not say exactly what. If it did not sound ridiculous he might have said that she was glowing, that some unknown radiance was shining through her skin and illuminating her face and the clothing that she wore.

"You…are looking better this morning," he said, taking a step away from her and turning back to the fire. His mind was racing. She didn't seem to be angry, or upset. The Tears must have blotted out her memory, he realized, with unbelievable relief.

"Everything has changed," she said, holding her hands open to him. She looked down, smiling to herself. "I heard the Ancients last night, in my sleep."

Sephiroth stared at her. She continued somewhat apologetically, realizing how strange she must sound to him. "I…used to hear them, be guided by them all the time…in my former life."

Sephiroth knelt down in front of the fire and moved some of the logs with a poker. So it was true, what Hojo had suspected but never proven, that the Cetra shared some kind of collective consciousness through which they could communicate. He had read the reports.

His voice was dispassionate. "What did they say?"

"There is an answer," she said breathlessly, "For both of us."

He shifted uncomfortably, a thousand conflicting feelings roiling inside him.

"An answer? What does that mean?"

Aerith's mouth opened and closed, as she thought of the way to best communicate the tremendous joy that leaped within her. She decided on the most direct facts.

"I can be healed. You can be absolved."

It was a moment before he could speak. "How can you be sure?" he said, his mouth dry.

"It's difficult to explain, but I know. I just do."

Sephiroth got up from the fire but kept his back to her.

"What would the Ancients know of me?"

"They didn't say how they knew what they knew. But they called you by name. They said the Gate's curse could be taken from you, that you could be healed." She paused. "Does that make any sense to you?"

Sephiroth's thoughts raced. He had never told her about his experience at the Gate, or its curse. He turned on her suddenly, studying her eyes for any sign of deception. She met his gaze without hesitation, wondering at his sudden intensity.

"What must we do?" he said at last.

"We must leave this place. Go to the Ajit, the forgotten capital."

Sephiroth turned from her, taking up position behind one of the armchairs. "And what then?" He dug his hands into the mouldering fabric.

Her countenance dimmed. "They only said that the truth is in the water. I think they mean the lake where I died."

Sephiroth frowned. Why would the Ancients care what became of him, much less offer him redemption? It could be a trap, an elaborately constructed ruse to get rid of him once and for all, or seal him in some kind of Cetran hell for all eternity. But what was the alternative? Waiting out his stay of execution in this wretched hole in the ground? Even if it was a ruse, what did it matter?

"If what you say is true, you do realize what they are asking of us, don't you?" Sephiroth said at last, "Ajit is over fifteen hundred miles away. The only route passable by foot takes us over a mountain range. We would likely freeze or starve to death before we even made it halfway. There's a reason that the Crater is always approached from the air. Only a fool approaches it on foot."

Aerith was silent. She said nothing for so long that Sephiroth wondered if his statement of the facts had completely dissuaded her.

"You're right, of course. All those things are true. We will most likely perish," she said a few minutes later. She looked down at her hands gravely. "But do you really care? I don't. I will die, just for the chance. I want to be healed." She looked at the ground near his feet. "Take the chance with me. Once I am healed and your curse is broken we can go our separate ways. You will never have to see me again. " She looked up at him cautiously. "What do you say?"

Sephiroth considered her words carefully. It was strange, the way she was speaking, as if she was half here with him, and half in some other world, listening to something he couldn't hear. Who knew if Cetra could know the future, or, if being half-Cetra, she could know part of it. Whatever the case, her words resonated strangely in him, somewhere deep down in his bones. Somehow he knew that anything he said to this now would be a vow, and he would have to follow it through, to whatever end awaited him. He took his time to think about it.

She would go on her quest without him if she had to, he knew. He suppressed a smirk. That would be just like her.

"I will do this," he said at last.

Aerith smiled. It was a real smile. Sephiroth looked at her, and she did not try to look away.

Baral was surprised when they told him that they were leaving. He tried everything he could to talk them out of it.

"Whatever do you want to get to Ajit for? You're doing just fine here, nice and safe, with no one around to worry about harassing you or weaseling into your business." He gestured expansively. "Besides, there's nothing there at Ajit any more but a bunch of crumbling ruins. And just this last year the creatures in the forest surrounding it have gotten so fierce that they've erected a three meter fence on the northern border of Bone Village just to keep them from overrunning the diggings." He gave a sort of disgusted snort and slurped his tea noisily.

"But we need to go," Aerith said quietly. "Could we travel with you, even for just part of the way?"

"Oh, now," Baral shifted uncomfortably, "Well, you know that I'd be happy to help you out with supplies, anything you need for the trip. But, you know, it just wouldn't be right, a fine pair like yourself traveling with such a rough bunch of louts."

"We will not trouble you. We can handle ourselves," Sephiroth said firmly. He knew Baral did not doubt him. He was acting strangely. Something seemed off. "We can make it worth your while," he added, "Money is no object."

Baral scowled. "Oh, I know. Really, though, I couldn't agree to it. I'm sorry." He tried not to look at Aerith's crestfallen face. "You've been fine customers. Business, and all. It's strictly a business decision. Can't have you caught up in all my old nonsense." He tittered nervously, and got up to leave. "I really have to be going now. We'll be moving camp soon."

Aerith was still mute, crushingly disappointed.

"Very well, if that's what you decide," Sephiroth said. Unlike Aerith, he had no illusions about what kind of man he was dealing with. For all of Barals' grandfatherly demeanor, Sephiroth knew that pressing him would ultimately end with the silver barrel of his gun in their face.

But, in spite of the fact that Baral would not let them travel together, he still was a valuable resource. He provided them with maps and, for an assuredly overinflated price, his spare navsat unit. He went over the route they were to take in detail, pointing out the best places to stop and camp for the night, or places to take refuge in rough weather.

They would leave in early spring. Baral would meet them in his customary place and supply them with sled dogs and the bulk of their supplies. They would head south, then continue west to the pass into the Oskenstan Mountain Range. From there they would cross over the mountains and, if all went well, make it to Icicle Inn before the winter storms hit again. They had only five months to prepare.

They worked furiously, conserving everything they could for the long trip. Most of the time they worked silently, but sometimes Aerith would sing a little song, humming to herself, or even talk about small things she had seen or done in the course of her day. Her pain seemed much improved since the treatment with the Tears and only seemed to bother her slightly from time to time.

"Do you still hear the Ancients, Aerith? Or was it only once, after the Tears?" Sephiroth asked her one evening, two months before they were to begin their journey.

Aerith looked up from the bedroll she was sewing and looked at him. It was hard for him to understand her expression. The best word he could find to describe it was bittersweet.

"They're fading now. It's like hearing someone speaking from a room away."

"Have you always heard them?" He tried to imagine what it would be like, to have that constant connection to something else.

"Always. I remember them from the moment I was born."

"You remember it?"

"Yes. My first memory is of their voices, and my mother's voice."

Sephiroth was silent. His first memory had been of voices, too. He wished he could forget what they had said. Sephiroth twisted the fine sinew he was braiding around his hand, gathering it into lengths.

"What did she say?" he asked Aerith.

"What?"

"Your mother. What did she say to you, when you were born?"

Aerith looked into the fire. From the expression on her face Sephiroth could tell it was a happy memory, probably one of her happiest.

"She said a good thing, a welcoming thing. It's hard to translate into human words."

He did not press her further. Even though Aerith was now talking to him on a somewhat regular basis, and would answer almost any question asked of her, it was probably better not to take advantage of it.

"How about you?" Aerith asked him after a few moments passed.

"What?"

Aerith looked embarrassed. "Well, you must have had someone, right? That took care of you?"

Sephiroth looked down.

"Yes."

"Did they have a name?"

"She," Sephiroth corrected.

"Did she have a name?"

Sephiroth looked down and nodded, pursing his lips. He hadn't thought about this for a very long time. Jani. That had been her name, although now he wondered if it had even been her real one. His memory gave him a vision of a short sturdy woman with deep brown eyes and tousled wheat colored hair that fell to the middle of her back, always dressed in pale green or blue scrubs and a white coat. Her name had been the first word he had ever spoken.

Jani, the one whose scent and face and voice he remembered as he whimpered under whatever treatment Hojo had subjected him to that day. She was everything, everything, a world in unto herself. He had worshipped her with an intense unending devotion, treasuring the books that she touched, hoarding her stolen barrettes like gold. Pain, deprivation, none of it mattered as long as she was there. He endured the circumstances of his life, as bravely as he could, for her.

He turned away from her. "I don't want to talk about it right now."

Aerith smiled nervously. "Some other time perhaps."

Sephiroth said nothing, and eventually Aerith turned away from him.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Weeks passed. Aerith kept a long row of pebbles on the mantle to count down the days until their departure. Every morning she took one away. Steadily they dwindled, twenty-five, twenty, sixteen, ten, until, at last, only a few remained.

As the numbers fell into the single digits, Sephiroth grew increasingly nervous. He would have to tell her, about Masamune. He considered her potential reactions uneasily. It had the potential to jeopardize everything, and completely ruin the fragile fiber of trust that had grown between them in the last few months. But she had to know, she deserved to know everything he was and what she was getting into, and sooner rather than later. And more than that, he had to be certain he could rely on her, trust her with his life, if need be. Sephiroth made up his mind.

"Aerith," he asked her, the night before they were to leave, "What do you expect to find once we get to Ajit?"

"I don't really know. I guess I'll worry about it when I get there."

"We should be realistic."

She frowned. "You don't think we'll make it."

"I cannot say if we will or won't. It will be a difficult journey."

"But it will be worth it, won't it, to be free?"

He was silent for a moment, not sure what to say. He stared at the floor. He thought of everything that they had already been though together; all the months they had huddled like rats, wet and cold, fighting off starvation one hard gotten mouthful of food at a time. He remembered the creation of their home, how together they had called the magic of the earth morph materia, wild and nearly ungovernable, and bent it to their will, forcing it upward, upward, opening a passage in the stone, until it finally broke out into the sky. He had held her wrist, then, and the surging power of the magic had thrummed through her bones, barely contained. He remembered the feel of her skin and the sound of her cry, during the ritual of the Tears. It was unforgettable, as much as he sometimes wished he could.

"Yes," he said at last. He looked at her keenly. A slender piece of her hair had slipped forward as she bent over her work and danced against her lips. She blew it away with a puff of air from the side of her mouth.

"Do you trust me?" he asked.

"As much as I can." It was not a serious answer although he was deadly serious in asking the question. She did not even look up from her sewing.

"I have something that I want you to know about, before we leave. It is something I've kept from you for a long time now. I have to know if you will…accept it. If you will still trust me so much, if you know."

Now he had her rapt attention.

"What is it?"

"Please come here." He led her to the center of the room. She stood and waited, wondering what he was up to.

"Now what?"

"Wait here."

Sephiroth went to his room. It was a lot sparser than usual. Both the cabinets were gone, he had broken them up and used the tough black wood to construct the dogsled they'd need for their long journey. Every scrap of cloth had been stripped from his bed and what hadn't been sewn into his bedroll had turned into bandages or been braided into rope or bootlaces. Sephiroth took Masamune and his armor from their hiding place and laid it all out on the bare mattresses.

They were leaving in the morning for Baral's camp, to get their dogs and the remainder of their supplies and then they would be off. He had to tell her now. Almost affectionately, he ran his hand along the curve of his shoulder pauldron and picked it up. He dressed carefully in his old clothes. The textures of everything he touched; cloth, leather, metal, the toothed edge of a zipper, seemed strangely acute. He slung Masamune across his back, settling the harness across his broad shoulders. From the next room he heard Aerith singing quietly to herself, a light swooping song in a language he did not know. Sephiroth took a deep breath, then went to meet her with the stern bearing of the general that he had been.

Her expression of shock at seeing him was one he anticipated, as was the flash of terror that played across her face when he unsheathed Masamune, and it surprised him how much he liked it. When she was just within reach of his sword, Sephiroth went down on his knees before her, and bowed his head.

"There will be no more secrets between us, and no regrets. This is what I am, Aerith. It will never change, or go away. I will ask you again, one last time, if you are still so willing to forgive." He balanced Masamune across the flat of his palms and offered it up to her, still keeping his head down. He held it like that, for eternities, it seemed.

"Take it," he commanded. "Do what you will. Make your peace. I will not give you another chance." A few more seconds passed. Gently, he felt the sword being lifted from his hands, heard her gentle footfalls walk around him slowly in a circle. His heart leapt in his throat. She was going to do it. He felt the light weight of the blade touch one shoulder, then brush the thin skin on the side of his neck. He swallowed, which made the blade shiver. If he was going to die, then he would at least have the honor of meeting it directly. He raised his head and looked up at her. She did not seem troubled, holding the blade that had killed her, and neither did his gaze disturb her. Her face was ineffably serene. She raised the blade up and over his head and lightly tapped his other shoulder. After a long serious look she took the blade away. Sephiroth stood up. Aerith made no motion to stop him. She tipped Masamune's blade down so that the handle was toward him, and held out it for him to grasp.

"You'd better take it. It cries for you," she said strangely. "Besides, it's too heavy for me to hold for long." She looked him over, evaluating. "I did not know about any of this but… it seems right somehow. This is how I remember you best."

"I will leave most of it behind," Sephiroth said.

"That seems right somehow, too." She smiled a little sadly.

"Does Masamune bother you?" He held it out and turned it, so that light flashed down the blade.

"It doesn't aggravate my pain, if that's what you're asking."

He didn't say anything.

"Where did all of this come from?" she asked, "You didn't have anything when I found you."

"I found it in the rivers, about six months ago. I theorize that everything material in the Lifestream washes up under the Crater, sooner or later, when we return."

"I wonder why my things never surfaced?"

"Perhaps they will someday."

"Or perhaps some mangy were-rat is running around in my boots and old pink dress!" Aerith said, with rare exuberance. She almost burst out laughing. Almost. She started to, but then it came out as a sort of half snicker.

Sephiroth looked at her. He didn't laugh along with her, since he did not laugh, but the corners of his mouth turned up almost imperceptibly.

He sheathed Masamune across his back. It felt good having it there. He was glad he didn't have to hide it any more. Perhaps this journey, and the Ancients, Aerith, everything, would work out. Tomorrow they would meet Baral and be on their way. Tomorrow everything would change.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

"I don't care what you say, I am taking the clock!"

Sephiroth sighed to himself. It was the second time this morning he was having this inane conversation. "Aerith, it will only take up valuable space. There is no logical reason why you should take it. Your pack is difficult for you to carry as it is."

Aerith had already wrapped it in a muslin cloth and jammed it as deep into her pack as it would go. It ticked loudly, making her pack sound like mechanical clockwork, or a bomb. Then it chimed the hour, muffled and discordantly.

Sephiroth scowled at her. "Our life could depend on silence."

"Wait. Wait." She reopened her pack and dug, finally lifting out the clock and opening its enameled face to see the gears inside. She flipped a little switch inside it and reburied it inside her pack.

"I disabled the chime. No more excuses."

"You will carry it." And that was all Sephiroth had to say on the matter.

After a hearty breakfast they were off at last. As a last act, Aerith scattered salt across the all the thresholds as they withdrew, to guard against any evil spirits taking up residence. They closed the door behind them but did not bar it. Aerith liked the idea of leaving it open, just in case there were ever any others like them, lost under the Crater, who needed a safe place to sleep.

Up on the surface, it was an hour before dawn and still bitterly cold. It was early enough in the year that the temperature would not approach freezing even in the middle of the day, but that would change in a few weeks, as they moved increasingly southward. They picked their way upwards over the rocky terrain in the dark. They made it to the lip of the crater just as the eastern horizon was beginning to lighten. The sled, already packed with any goods that wouldn't freeze, was hidden under a heavy white cloth in a well shadowed hollow on the edge of the snowfields.

They would have to pull the sled themselves until they got to Barals'camp. It was slow going, and hard work, and Aerith found herself sweating in spite of the biting temperatures. They settled into a steady rhythm, each pulling on their own section of harness, tramping steadily with their snowshoes. The sun rose gradually as they made their way onward.

Why did Baral move so far out, Aerith wondered, breathing hard with the weight of the sled. It was the third time in as many weeks he had moved his camp. Already she was looking forward to a hot cup of tea and Baral's sunny hospitality. She readjusted the harness on her shoulders, continuing on.

It was almost midday when they were making their final approach. In front of them rose a vast dune of snow. They were still a little under a mile away now; Baral's camp was in the lee side of the dune, sheltered from the wind. As they climbed higher and higher, Sephiroth caught the faint scent of something terrifyingly familiar. He stopped abruptly, bringing Aerith up short.

"Sephiroth, what…what are you doing?"

He scanned the sky, found what he was looking for. He undid his harness as quickly as he could with his heavily gloved fingers and let it drop to the ground.

"Stay here," he said to Aerith. He looked sternly at her through his amber goggles.

" But what is going on-?"

"Just stay here."

He turned from her and sprinted up the dune face, dropping down to his belly just at the lip of the ridge. He peered over the edge, trying to keep his profile low. What he saw confirmed his worst fears. The smoking remains of Baral's camp littered the valley below. Nothing, it seemed, had been spared. Even from this height it was easy to make out the blackened wreck of the wagons, still smoldering. The bright frozen blood of the slaughtered yaks glistened in the strong light. Sephiroth ran his eyes over the scene. No, it was not just the yaks. He counted six bodies. There were probably more.

He kept a low profile as he made his way back to Aerith.

"What's going on?"

"Look." He pointed at the sky, at the six white contrails, low on the horizon, that were only just starting to dissipate. "It looks like an airstrike. Baral's camp was attacked." He waited for the words to sink in.

"But Baral is…ok, isn't he?"

He said nothing. His look told her his answer.

Aerith looked up at the summit of the dune, then back again, slowly. Then, suddenly, she pulled off the harness that tethered her to the sled and shook herself free of it. She charged up the dune at full speed, her legs pumping. Sephiroth tore after her.

"What are you doing? Get down!" He seized her wrist and pulled. The unexpected strength of his grip threw her off balance, and she spun around him in an arc, tripping on her toes. Her boot caught on a rough crust of ice and she fell down hard on her knees. She jerked her wrist away from him and rubbed it with her rough horsehair mitten as if it had hurt her. He knelt down next to her in the snow so they could be eye to eye. Even through the many layers she was wearing, Sephiroth could see that her ribs were heaving with deep deliberate breaths.

"Just because it was an airstrike does not mean they did not also engage on the ground. The people who did this could still be down there. You cannot go rushing in before we know what we're dealing with."

Aerith did not answer him. She pulled open the neckflap of her parka. Her breath burst forth like a sharp white flag. Sephiroth noticed that her lower lip had split in the cold and a drop of blood, like a bright birds' eye, trembled on it.

"I will survey the site. If it is safe we will investigate together."

Aerith appeared not to have heard anything he had said. She just looked from the sky to the ground and back again, rubbing her wrist.

"Aerith!"

She looked at him. He watched her taste the blood on her lip.

"Wait for me at the crest of the dune. I will signal you if it is safe."

Aerith looked down and nodded. She shivered and rebuckled her parka.

Carefully, Masamune out and ready, Sephiroth descended the slope toward the camp. He took cover wherever he could find it, from time to time glancing at the sky for any activity. There was no sign of any movement as he approached. He circled the remains of the camp, his senses open and searching. Carefully, he studied the imprint of the tracks in the snow. Their interiors were glassy, the edges soft and starting to crumble. He estimated they were about two days old. He could be more than reasonably certain that the men who had made them were long gone. Casting a last glance at the sky, he signaled to Aerith. In a few moments she joined him, holding her sturdy staff before her. She was silent for a while, absorbing the scene of devastation.

"Who could have done this?" she said at last.

"Baral had a whole life he never shared with us. It could have been anyone."

They walked around the blackened husk of a wagon, its iron chimney was laying fifteen feet away, half blasted to shrapnel. The rest of it was a charred heap of burnt wood and deformed metal. Aerith thought she saw some long whitish shapes that looked like bones and quickly looked away. Sephiroth was not so squeamish. He callously stepped over the burnt remains of Baral's men and broke pieces of the charred wreckage apart, searching for anything worth salvaging. All his efforts yielded a few canned goods and a tea tumbler, both slightly deformed from the heat.

Sephiroth continued searching, his heart sinking lower and lower as his searches yielded nothing but pieces of charred machinery, melted firearms, snarls of wire, wads of smokestained clothes. Finally, his white parka streaked with greasy soot, Sephiroth climbed on top of an upended wagon and sat there, his legs dangling, to think.

It was suicide to try to attempt the crossing now, with half of their supplies missing and no sled dogs to carry them. Returning to their home under the Crater was equally condemning. They would survive, surely, and for a while they might live as well as they had. But, little by little their supplies would fail and from then it would be just one long slow downward spiral into deprivation and digging for roots in the dark. Below him he watched Aerith trying to pry open a compartment on some twisted piece of wreckage. He watched her labor for a while, trying to bend the unyielding metal again and again, getting nowhere. He looked at the sky, slashed with white contrail, then, when that was too painful, out into the featureless fields of snow. At last he jumped down from his perch and continued his search alone.

On the edge of the camp there were a blasted heap of wagons that he had not investigated. Next to them a pair of dead yaks was frozen to the ground, still in their harnesses. Scavengers had already been worrying them; wads of dark brown yak hair littered the snow, blowing end over end in the wind. Sephiroth noted multiple pairs of teeth marks in the frozen flesh. None looked exotic; they were bear or dog, most likely. Perhaps the meat might still be salvageable. He unsheathed Masamune and set to work, stripping off the remainder of the fur and shaving off thin red curls of frozen muscle and compressing them into neat stacks. He was filling his pack and pockets with bundles of shavings when he heard something moving behind him. He turned around just fast enough to confirm that it was one of the sled dogs, running loose and no doubt sustaining itself by consuming the frozen body of its master. Sephiroth jumped to his feet and attempted to pursue it as it ran helter-skelter through the wreckage. But the dog was wild and not intent on being caught. With a parting snarl, it vanished somewhere out into the endless white tundra.

Irritated that he had wasted so much energy on such a fruitless exercise, Sephiroth turned back to the ruined campsite. Before him was a cluster of four or five wagons tipped over and tumbled up onto each other like toys. There was heavy char on one side, they had been scorched but not burned completely through. It was a promising place to look for supplies. Sephiroth approached, then suddenly stopped cold. From a space under the lowest wagon protruded a broad, weather-worn hand that looked sickeningly familiar. Sephiroth got down on his knees, following the line of the arm back into the dark space under the wagons. In the shadowy darkness, stiff and dead, one whiskered cheek pressed into the snow, was Baral.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Sephiroth looked around, trying to reconstruct the story from the landscape. From the tracks and craters in the surrounding snow, it looked like he had been trying to escape from the air assault. He looked again at the one-sided char on the wagons, scanned the ground fifteen feet away. Yes, there was the main crater. A bomb had landed there, and when the wagons had tumbled up and over from the concussion, they had pinned him underneath. But Baral had still been alive, at least for a little while. Two neat bullet wounds on his forehead was how he ended. At least he didn't suffer long, Sephiroth thought. He sat back on his heels.

Ice crystals had formed on Barals' eyelashes. Sephiroth reached out and brushed them away with the fingertip of his sooty glove. He wasn't sure what to feel. It wasn't as if he had really known him. Baral had always kept much more to himself than he ever revealed, despite all his talking. He looked at Baral's body again. The wounds on his forehead looked unreal, like coins of red sealing wax. He looked as if he had had just laid down to rest and at any moment he would stand up, brush himself off, and go back to being his old self.

But surely they couldn't leave him like this, like any other carcass for the animals to strip and devour. He heard boots crunching on the snow behind him, Aerith's light quick step. Any moment now she would look down and see…He closed his eyes and waited. The footsteps stopped. He heard something, a small object, drop into the snow. Sephiroth turned around.

Aerith's eyes were large and round as she focused on the body beneath the wagon. The red and gilt tea glass she had been holding lay at her feet. Tendrils of her hair were poking out of her hood and were buffeted back and forth across her face as the wind picked up. She pressed her thick mittened hands to her mouth.

"It's him, isn't it?"

"Yes."

She knelt down in the snow.

"Oh Baral, what have you done?" she said tenderly. She took off her gloves and touched his icy palm, his fingers. She started to cry, but choked herself back.

"We should bury him," Sephiroth said after a few minutes. The wind kicked up from the east, blowing sheets of sparkling snow from the top of the dune. It rained down upon the camp, covering everything in a fine diamond powder.

"Yes." Aerith lifted up her goggles and wiped her face with the back of her sleeve. "Let's move these wagons."

With both of them pushing and the aid of a gravity spell, they were able to shift them just enough so they could get to the body. Baral's legs had been broken in numerous places, his pelvis crushed almost flat from the weight of the wagons. The snow beneath him was a deep crimson-black. At the sight, Aerith turned away, opening the flap of her parka. She breathed in and out slowly, trying not to retch.

"You should find a place to dig the grave." Sephiroth said. "I will find something to wrap him in."

Aerith got up and stumbled away. The wind threw snow in his face as he turned to watch her go.

Sephiroth searched the wreckage and returned with the singed half of a yak-hair blanket. He spread it out on the ground next to Barals' body. It was more than large enough. Carefully, he eased Baral onto the blanket. He looked so much smaller than he remembered.

Sephiroth looked into the still dead eyes. They had first met in one of the Crater's shallow caverns, he remembered. Baral had been poking around, somewhat haphazardly, for hours, making a horrible racket. Sephiroth had followed him, unseen. When he finally decided to show himself, Baral had leaned casually against the wall and grinned at him, then shrugged and pointed his gun at his head. Baral had fired a warning shot into the cavern ceiling, calling out merrily: "Here to share my treasure, are you, my friend? You might think again."

Sephiroth smirked at the memory, but it soon vanished. Here had been a man that had laughed, talked, thought, and now there was nothing, just a frozen husk. Sephiroth got up and retrieved the gold tea tumbler from the snow. He pressed it lightly into Barals' hand, although he didn't know why. He folded the blanket over the dead man's face and went to go find Aerith.

She had dug the grave at the edge of camp, a wide oblong hole a few feet deep. She shook her head at him as he approached.

"It's the best I can do. It gets too rocky if I go much deeper, it deflects the spells." She tossed her head in anguish, trying not to sob. "I tried."

"It will suffice."

Together they carried Baral's body to the edge of camp and carefully slid it into the hole. After they had finished they stood at the edge of the grave, not speaking.

"We should say something," said Aerith.

"What does one say?" Sephiroth said, shifting uncomfortably.

Aerith looked at him, it was difficult to read her expression, but her voice was innocent. "Oh. You really wouldn't know, would you?"

Sephiroth was silent.

"I will do it," Aerith said. She opened her parka and threw back her hood. The wind took her hair and lashed it, flinging it out behind her, bronze-red, the only color in the vast monochromatic landscape.

"Baral," she said, her voice almost entirely lost in the wind, "child of the Planet, trader, merchant, be at peace. May the Lifestream envelop you and guide you on your path."

Aerith lifted her arms and the surrounding snow swept together and gathered in the air; a swirling white column thirty feet high. Her whole body shook with the effort of suspending it. She bowed forward, and brought her arms down before her. The snow dropped into the grave in a sparkling shower. Baral was gone without a trace.

The moment the snow had finished falling, Sephiroth turned and began walking away.

Aerith caught up to him.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Back to the sled. There's nothing else left for us here. Let's move on."

They walked back to the sled in silence. When they arrived Aerith stowed the few items she had salvaged and then sat on her pack, looking up at the sky.

"Do you still want to do this?" she asked. "We have no dogs, we have only a fraction of the supplies we need to survive the crossing."

"We've come this far," Sephiroth said. His eyes were on the far horizon now, in the direction the sun had risen. "We need to at least try to make the attempt. To our ruin if it is to be so. Isn't that what you said?"

He threw the harness over his shoulders and buckled it across his chest.

Aerith got up from her pack. "Yes, you're right."

"Then, let's go."

They pulled the sled until nightfall, only stopping to rest once. The landscape was smooth and unchanging, a great flat plain of white upon white, and more than once Sephiroth wondered if they were making any progress at all. But eventually night fell, the light slowly fading into blackness, and they were forced to stop.

"Did we make it to the first waypoint?" Aerith asked, sitting in the snow beside the sled, so she could be out of the wind. Sephiroth paced back and forth beside her, wiping the frost off the screen of the nav-sat unit. He got their coordinates from the device and consulted the map.

"No. We're half as far as we need to be. We're completely out in the open. There's nothing for thirty miles. We should have made it to this ridge." He indicated on the map.

Aerith took another handful of dried apples and chewed, saying nothing for a while. "Should we try to get there?"

"Travelling in the dark is dangerous. We should avoid it if we can."

"Let's camp here," she said, "No sense exhausting ourselves the first day."

It was an overcast night, and the blackness was complete. They assembled their shelter in the pale green light of the nav-sat's screen, the wind battering them every step of the way. Sephiroth drove the last stake down into the ice and threw himself inside. Aerith was already in her bedroll, with her coat laid over her. Her eyes were closed, but she opened them as soon as he entered. They glittered weirdly in the harsh glow of the nav-sat screen. The wind rippled the roof of the tent and the poles flexed precariously with the force. Sephiroth turned away from her, sat on his bedroll and pulled off his boots. He closed the nav-sat to conserve power, leaving them in complete darkness. Sephiroth laid down and listened to the screaming wind, trying not to move in the tight space. He could feel the cold leaching in through the tent seams. Aerith shifted behind him, the edge of her bedroll moving against his back. He heard her gasp quietly, and then she held her breath. The edge of her bedroll continued to quiver. Sephiroth sat up and turned toward her.

"Are you crying?"

She sniffed quietly.

"No. Yes. I was just thinking of Baral."

Sephiroth was silent. He had no words of comfort to offer her.

She sniffed and continued. "When Cetrans die, it is always so beautiful, the energy in our bodies dissolves into a cloud of light, leaving nothing. Humans are so…different. I can never get used to it."

Sephiroth lay on his back and shifted away from her, until his shoulder touched the cold tent wall. Her proximity was unnerving, too intimate. He could smell the sweetness of the apples on her breath as she breathed in and out.

"My mother died at a train station in Midgar," she volunteered suddenly, "The escape from ShinRa Tower was too much. She was already very weak, from what the scientists had done to her."

"I am sorry." Sephiroth didn't know what else to say. There could be hundreds, thousands even, who might have had the same story of torment, escape and eventual death. It was or would be essentially his own story too, he realized, and the thought grieved him, but there was nothing to be done for it.

"When were you in the Tower?" he asked.

"We were in and out, over a couple of years."

"What years?"

"Why?"

"I was there, too."

"What were you doing there?"

"It was my home." He thought of the small square room that he slept in, with its gray rubber tiles, the white ceramic sink and the mirror above it, the single bed with the surgical blue sheets, the workrooms where he trained, the library, everything unchanged year after year after year.

"You _lived_ there?" Aerith turned over to face him. Sephiroth was glad of the darkness.

"Yes. Most of the time, until I entered Soldier."

"How did you stand it?"

He had no idea how to answer the question. He had never considered it, but had only bore each suffering as it came. There had never been anything else; it was all he had known. That was the true answer.

"Where did they keep you?" he asked, instead of answering her.

"Lower-central I think. It was hard to tell. There were no windows. I never saw the sun. Where were you?"

"In the tower, two floors below the executive levels."

"So, almost at the top."

"Yes."

They were silent for a while. The wind buffeted the roof of the tent unceasingly. Sephiroth shivered and drew his bedroll closer around him. It was surreal, talking with Aerith about the labs. It was strange to think that she, of all people, had known them, too. But she had lived her life almost completely outside their walls, and had known so many other things that he had never experienced. She was a completely different creature.

"Could you see the sky, where you were?" Aerith asked.

He thought back. It had been a reward, just like a visit to the vivarium to look at the animals. Jani would take him to the maintenance space on top of the elevator core, where the huge counterweights for the cars hung like churchbells and let him look out of a small square window at the smoggy city below. The sky above the smog layer had been clear, impossibly blue, he remembered, the sun so bright it hurt to look at. And then, just once, in the middle of the night, he had stolen Hojo's keycard and snuck up to the heliport at the top of the tower. He had crept up to safety cable at the edge of the building, leaning out over the void so that the wind rattled in his lungs. It was incredible; so much space, so much air, the city glittering below him like a carpet of gems. But there was no way he could communicate all of this, what these experiences had meant to him.

"Sometimes," was what he said.

"Jani was the one who took care of you, wasn't it?"

Hearing her name shocked him. "How do you know that?"

"When you were recovering from the Lifestream, you said that name a lot. She must have been very important to you."

"She was."

Sephiroth turned over onto his side, away from her. He put his hands over his ears, laced his fingers into his smooth hair. His mind was racing; what else had he said while he had been recovering, what other things did she know? He didn't want to say anything more. Talking just proved how different he was, how he had nothing good to share. Already he had shared too much. He felt the wind bow the tent, pressing stiff frozen fabric against his face.

"Sephiroth?" Aerith asked, wondering if he had heard her.

"I don't want to talk about her. Please don't ask again."

The inflection in his voice wasn't anger, Aerith realized with a start, but was trying very hard to be. There was pain in his words, seeping out like a slow spreading bruise.

"I'm sorry," she said, still wondering at the desperate intensity behind his words, at what else he was hiding. Clearly Jani had meant a lot to him once, and maybe more than she ever guessed. Maybe he had even loved her. It was something, if only a vestige, of humanity, that she had never perceived in him before. As if he was only a man, something that could feel.

Sephiroth waited anxiously.

"Good Night," he said at last. He felt Aerith sit up and lean closer to him, as if she wanted to say something, but eventually he felt her lie down and turn away. Her breathing settled into an easy rhythm; she was asleep. Sephiroth stared into the darkness, wide awake. Jani. Hearing her name spoken aloud filled him with pain, and it shocked him, by how much it still hurt, even after all this time. That night, when it was all taken from him…


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

He had been around nine or ten, he wasn't entirely sure. It was after the last of the surgeries, Sephiroth remembered, as his head had been shaven, his hair just a stiff crown of silver stubble. He had woken suddenly from a deep sleep with a shrieking headache. He had stumbled out of bed to lie on the floor, bright spangles and blooms of light shivering across his field of vision. He rested his cheek on the cool rubber tile. This was bad, very bad, he thought, a possible side effect from his treatment. Hojo had told him to watch for things like this. Mako sera had been injected directly into the primary visual cortex of his brain only two days before.

He would get Jani, he thought, she would give him something, or get the nurse. He gripped the metal leg of his bed and pulled himself up. He shuffled toward the door, searching for the intercom on the wall. Pressing one hand to his pounding head, he mashed the buttons, finding the one that released the door by accident. The door slid back and he stumbled out into the hall. The night lighting was on, making the clean white and gray surfaces of the compound seem soft and mysterious. Jani's room was just across the hall. He tottered forward and pressed the button on her intercom and called her name, quietly so as not to disturb the silence. There was no answer. He tried again, with the same result. She was probably asleep, and didn't hear him. He put his hand up to the doorplate, letting it read his palmprint. The door clicked open. He entered timidly, creeping up to her bed on his hand and knees, calling her name. No answer. He peered upward. The covers on her bed were flawless and smooth; she was nowhere to be found.

He would have wept, if he was capable of weeping, out of pure frustration. All of the technicians were asleep on inaccessible floors of the complex. His other surgeries had gone well; he had healed quickly and completely within a few days, so they had stopped housing nurses on his floor. There were a few in the recovery suites six levels down, he knew, but he didn't have the codes to reach them and was not authorized to call down. His only hope was Hojo. He would have to get to the opposite wing, where the floor had carpeting, and use his special codes on all the outer doors. Groaning, he crawled into Jani's bed and rubbed his face into her pillow, gathering the sheets around himself. He clasped her pillow to his chest and waited. It was the best place he could think of, to die. But then he thought of her, how grieved she would be and how awful it would be to never see her again. The thought gave him the strength he needed to begin the long, slow trek.

For a long time he knelt in front of the door to Hojo's suite, leaning up against the deeply carven walnut threshold. He had already tried the doorpad twice, and access was denied both times. He could still get in, if he used the code that Hojo had given him to use in emergencies. It was an emergency, wasn't it, he thought, as another wave of pain and light assaulted his eyes, part of his brain could be dying. Shaking and numb, he placed his palm on the doorpad and spoke the twenty-six digit number. The door yielded and Sephiroth dragged himself inside like a wounded animal.

"Stop it, stop it Hojo, it hurts!" It was Jani, her voice distorted and strained. She sounded terrified. Sephiroth heard her make a sharp cry like a kicked dog, and then her voice was suddenly muffled. His heart swelled first with joy, at having found her, then turned to worry. She was hurting, Hojo was doing something to her, something horrible. He would help her, save her if he could. He got to his feet and tottered around the corner, holding on to the wall for support.

The scene that revealed itself in Hojo's room was beyond anything of his imagination. Jani lay open on the arctic landscape of the bed, her skin almost as pale as the sheets. The blaring lights hid nothing. Purple and yellow bruises pattered up her arms and on her thighs; ghost crescents of old bite marks marred her shoulders. Naked and sweating, Hojo heaved above her, penetrating her with quick deliberate strokes. His face was red and thick veins stood out in his throat. His thin lips were drawn back from his teeth in a snarling grimace, drawing his face into a weasel-like mask.

Sephiroth knew it was sex that he was seeing, it had been cursorily covered in his anatomy and physiology texts, but he had never imagined it would be like this, so brutal and ugly, all at the expense of a soft helpless creature who writhed and wept at it. He looked up again at the horrifying, shameful scene. Oh Jani, his Jani. Her face was dead and blank but her eyes were screaming, her mouth raw and wet with Hojo's spittle. She had tried to fight, there were scratches on Hojo's face and on his neck, but he was holding her wrists and leaning his weight on them so that she couldn't move. Kneeling on the carpet, Sephiroth put his hands over his ears so as not to hear her anguished cries. A scream clawed his way up his throat but he was voiceless, helpless to stop what was happening. His knees buckled and he fell forward onto the floor. Stars rained in his eyes and for a moment he was blind. Through the spangled haze he heard Jani's short clipped shriek as Hojo bit her shoulder, then the laughing grunt of his pleasure. When he could see again, Hojo was lifting himself off of her, a smear of blood on his chin, his belly shiny wet with sweat and seed. With a stab of horror, Sephiroth realized that Hojo was watching him and had been watching him for who knew how long. He froze, terrified. Hojo lazily got up off the bed and pulled on a crisp white robe, never breaking eye contact with him. Jani groaned and rolled onto her belly, pressing a handful of the white sheet to her bleeding bite.

"We have a visitor," Hojo said dryly, pulling the knot on his robe taut.

Jani looked up, noticed the child sprawled on the floor. "Oh Sephiroth, no…"

Hojo made a sharp hissing sound in his throat to silence her. He knelt down next to the quivering child.

"What do you need?" His breath smelt of blood and rankness.

"My head…" Sephiroth rocked back and forth.

"Stand up," Hojo commanded. "I will take you to the treatment room and examine you."

"Jani…" Sephiroth whimpered, desperate to have one look from her. Just one look would be enough to know that everything would be ok.

"Jani is none of your concern. Come with me." Hojo began to walk toward the door. When Sephiroth did not rise and follow, Hojo seized him by the arm and began to drag him from the room. Only when Hojo's back was to her did Jani dare to raise her head to look at the child who was calling for her. She pulled the sheets around herself, miserable and ashamed, trying to cover her nakedness. Tears were pouring from her great brown eyes, dripped in a steady rain off her chin. She shook her head back and forth, back and forth.

"I'm sorry…" she whispered to him, knowing he would read her lips and catch her words even if he couldn't hear them. "You did nothing wrong. You're a good boy." She raised the fingertips of her free hand to him. "I love you. Goodbye." she mouthed to him, shaking, then put her head down on the white sheets.

Hojo tugged him roughly down the hall but it was all a blur. Goodbye. Goodbye. That was the last thing she had said. The blade had fallen. Jani knew it, he knew it. Embarrassed and exposed, Hojo would make sure that she would never be seen again. He had already threatened to make her disappear for lesser things, and it was certain that he would carry through now. Sephiroth struggled and began to cry tearlessly, his thin high voice rising into a keening howl. Hojo's hand squeezed his bicep like a beast's jaws and he shook Sephiroth mercilessly.

"Silence. Silence. I will not stand for this disgusting crying. You will be quiet immediately or you will be punished." From the inflection in his voice Sephiroth knew he wasn't bluffing, but he no longer cared. All that mattered was Jani. He remembered her weeping, her bruises, her bleeding shoulder, and he howled louder, his voice wild and terrible like the mad grief of a mother mourning the death of her only child. He felt himself being dragged faster, the carpet burning the soles of his feet. Then there was a rush of cold air that brought with it the smell of rubber tile and antiseptic, and they were back in the lab. Still wailing uncontrollably, he was lifted and placed on an examination table. Hojo strapped him down, a tight nylon and Velcro web across his chest.

"Do _not_ kick," Hojo said, and then Sephiroth felt him pull down the left side of his pajama bottoms and draw a sample of blood from the femoral port at his hip. Then another syringe slid in after and he felt something burn down his leg. A moment later he couldn't move or speak. Helpless to resist, he felt Hojo part the stiff stubble of his hair, checking the injection sites, the glands in his neck.

"Unfortunate that you came to call at such an inopportune moment," Hojo said, in a smooth voice that Sephiroth found discomfiting. Hojo chuckled quietly to himself.

"Not that it matters. You will never be privileged to experience anything like it, though you will want to, when you are older. You won't be able to help yourself, I suppose. You are male, after all, and we do have our tendencies." He laughed again, to himself. Then his face changed and he was deadly serious. "But we _won't_ have you being distracted from your purpose." Hojo looked down at him, Jani's blood a rusty smear on his chin. Sephiroth looked back stonily, hating. _You are not a man._ _I will never be what you are_, he vowed, _never_. _I will die first_. Oblivious, Hojo checked the readout on one of the analyzers and plucked another syringe from the drawer.

"Good news," Hojo said, turning back to him, "You will survive. You had a slight protein imbalance. This should help. We will monitor you more closely from now on. Good night, sweet prince." He tapped Sephiroth lightly on the forehead; it was the kindest touch he had ever received from him. Sephiroth heard another syringe snap into the port at his hip, then he was swept away into the darkness.

For weeks he held onto the idea that maybe despite all evidence to the contrary, Jani would come back for him, perhaps at any moment. It kept him vigilant. As he did his studies in the library, or ate his joyless meals in a room by himself, he bided his time, waiting for her. Weeks slipped into months with only Hojo and the silent, indifferent, medical staff for company.

Crescent shaped bruises started to appear on the neck of his charge nurse, peeking over the collar of her starched white lab dress. He had seen them before on other women, they had always been on Jani, but now he knew what they meant, and the thought sickened him. With each new one he discovered his hope dwindled, until one day he stopped hoping, forever. Lying in a hospital bed, still shaking from the effects of his latest treatment, Sephiroth knew that now and for always, Jani was never coming back. He would never again hear the bright bell-like contralto of her voice, her laughter like quick water. She had abandoned him.

His anguish twisted in upon itself. Why, why, had she left him? How could she? Couldn't she have fought back, done something? If she had had to leave, why didn't she take him with her? Couldn't she have tried? Anything would have been better than this. He bit the bedsheet and pulled it apart, enjoying the sound of the tearing cloth. His neck and the back of his head burned from the movement and he threw himself violently back onto his pillow, panting with pain. Where was she now, when he lay here suffering and alone? It was clear she didn't care, which was really why she was gone. Perhaps she had never cared, perhaps it had all been a lie. It had been her job, wasn't it, to take care of him, and maybe that was all it ever was. He gulped, heat rising to his face as the first heady flames of his rage came to him. Perhaps there was no one who cared, really, no one. He bit the bedsheet again, ripping another rent into it. He eyed the clear tubing of the IV taped to the top of his hand. It fed back to a network of infusion pumps and a cluster of monitors.

Enough of this. He would have no more. He pulled out the IV and sent the swath of monitoring equipment and the infusion pumps smashing to the floor in a flood of shattered plastic and broken glass. Blood from his open vein spurted on the sheets and soaked the sleeve of his surgical gown. He had just a moment to appreciate the magnitude of his destruction before the nurses rushed in and held him down until an orderly came with a sedative.

From that moment on he acted out in flagrant disobedience of everything and everyone, refusing to study or come out of his room, refusing even to eat until Hojo threatened to intubate him. When he attacked a technician, hobbling him with a scalpel blade to his Achilles tendon, it was clear something needed to be done.

Hojo had called him into his office, where Sephiroth sat before him for an interminable period of time, his small body dwarfed by the tall back of a hard leather chair. Hojo hunched over his papers, writing in sharp bursts. Time ticked by. Sephiroth began to fidget.

"Stop that immediately," Hojo said, not looking up from his work. "You will sit calmly."

Sephiroth scowled but sat quietly. "You summoned me. What did you want me for?" he asked, a tang of irritation coloring his words.

"Your behavior as of late has been troubling. It suggests that you do not have enough to keep you occupied. I removed your useless nursemaid to free your time and this is how you repay me?" His voice was syrupy, pseudo-sweet, with a barb in it. Hojo looked up at him with greedy, glimmering eyes.

Sephiroth looked at the floor, cold rage twisting his mouth. Hojo had him. He was daring him to ask about Jani, defend her, beg for her. They had been playing this game for the last few months.

"You have nothing to say?" Hojo sat back and chuckled. "You never do, do you?"

Sephiroth stared into the dark. No, she had never come back. Now he knew that Hojo had likely either killed her outright via a Soldier sniper or reassigned her to some remote outpost where climate and disease would have had the same effect. There was a file, somewhere, that would tell him, so he could know the truth. He tried to think where he could find it, but it was hard to keep his mind focused. A million miles and as many years away, Sephiroth slept, his dreams full of seething wind.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

It was dim and gray when he woke. The wind was as strong as ever; he could hear it spitting snow against the sides of the tent. There was a warm heavy pressure against his back. Aerith was leaning against him, her head lying on her arm. It bothered him, how much he enjoyed the warmth and contact, the simple fact of having her there. He shifted away from her gently, then sat up and got out of his bedroll, pulling on his parka and boots. He unzipped the flap of the tent and let himself outside, the fierce cold meeting him like a blow. Bracing himself against the wind, he stood and looked in the direction of the dawn. The sun was a smudged blot of pearly light in the east, just rising over the mountains far in the distance. Sephiroth turned around, taking in the awesome desolation. There was unfamiliar terrain in every direction. They had so far to go.

It took them three weeks of steady travel to clear the snowfields. Even though they travelled as fast and as far as they could each day, to the limits of their endurance, it was clear that they were slipping further and further behind schedule.

"We will not make the highest pass before the snows," Sephiroth said, studying the chart.

Aerith looked up from her container of soup, blinking slowly. She shivered and hunched down closer toward the steaming vessel, wrapping her hands around it. She stared at the ground, her eyes were numb and blank from exhaustion.

They had stopped in the lee of a ridge to eat. Sheltered by a row of jagged black rocks, the air was still. A light snow fell steadily, blanketing the camp. Aerith finished her soup and got down from her spot on top of the sled. Sephiroth sat on the ground with the maps laid open on a tattered plastic tarp, the nav-sat unit beside them. She came over to see what he was looking at, and sat down beside him. He brushed the accumulating snow off of the map and showed her the route they had to take; the calculations he had made.

"Is there any way to get there faster?" she asked.

"In theory. There are several other routes we could try that could get us there. But Baral gave us this way to take; I must assume he knew what he was doing."

She didn't answer him.

Sephiroth looked at her. She seemed to almost waver as she sat next to him, as if she would collapse.

"Are you feeling alright?"

She shook herself. "I'll be ok."

"You should have some more to eat."

"I will."

Sephiroth glanced at his calculations, then back at Aerith. She was still sitting there, staring at nothing. A snowflake fell on her nose, melted. She sighed deeply and folded her arms under her ribs.

"Where is the tea?" she asked.

"It's in my pack. I will make some."

Sephiroth closed the map and got up. His muscles ached sharply. The skin on his shoulders and across his chest, already deeply bruised, was starting to break and scab over from the pressure of the harness. He had no idea how Aerith fared, but he imagined it had to be worse. He busied himself with setting up the propane burner and boiling more water.

Aerith got up slowly and began to assemble the carbon-rod skeleton of their shelter. Sephiroth brought her a cup of tea.

"Here," he said offering it to her. "Rest for now."

"Thank you." She took the cup from him and leaned against the sled wearily. She held the cup to her mouth, inhaling the steam before taking a tentative sip. Sephiroth continued working on the shelter.

"I think we should try one of the higher passes, it's a shorter route." Aerith said.

"It's rough country. The sled will be hard to pull."

"I know."

Sephiroth lifted the last segment of the shelter into place and stood back from it.

"Here. Go inside and sleep for a few hours. We can decide later."

Aerith handed him her empty teacup and crawled inside the open door. She zipped the flap from the inside. Sephiroth heard her moving around, then silence. He went back to his maps, calculating each possible route in terms of distance, terrain, and altitude. Several hours passed as he worked in the gently falling snow. He was boiling water again when Aerith began to stir. When she emerged from the shelter she looked no better than she had before. Her skin was shock-white, making her large green eyes seem strangely intense and otherworldly. Sephiroth stared at her.

"You're not well."

"No."

"I'm making some more food. See how you feel after you eat."

She nodded.

Sephiroth dropped pieces of frozen yak butter into a pot of boiling water, added shaved meat, and a packet of dehydrated vegetables and spices he had bought, centuries ago it seemed now, from Baral.

Aerith wandered over to the maps and looked at the calculations. She moved slowly, as if every movement hurt.

"Which way do you think is best?"

Sephiroth brushed the gathering snow off of his shoulders. "It depends what you want to risk."

"What do you mean?"

"We have several options. The fastest route by distance could be the most treacherous, depending on the weather. The safer routes will take us considerably out of the way, taking almost twice as much time. We're behind as it is. Unless we start rationing our supplies now, we could run out of food."

Aerith thought for a moment, looked again at the charts. "The fastest route possible."

"You're certain?"

"I don't know how much more I can do this. I'm not strong." She looked down, flexing her shoulders. "We just have to get over the mountains."

"So, we'll take the high pass, here." He indicated a faint line drawn in blue pencil. "Baral never intended that we should go this way, but given our circumstances we might want to consider it."

"If it's the fastest route, then I think we should." Aerith said wearily, "But could we leave tomorrow?"

Sephiroth nodded. "We wouldn't make much headway tonight as it is."

The lid on the cooking pot was dancing. Aerith went over to it and switched off the propane burner, putting the hot pot on top of a metal bowl filled with snow.

They sat on the tarp with the pot between them. Aerith took a bite of the stew, coughed.

"It's a little spicy." She lifted the pot to see if the snow beneath had melted enough for her to have a mouthful of water. Unfortunately, it hadn't.

Sephiroth took a forkful of stew. The spice was flavorful, but blisteringly hot. It only took a few bites before his mouth was burning so much he couldn't taste anything at all.

"So it is," he said.

"Baral was originally from Gongaga, wasn't he?" Aerith asked.

"Yes."

"I heard that everything there is spicy, even the bread."

"I didn't notice that, when I was there." Sephiroth said. He reflected. He honestly couldn't remember anything that was qualitative about that time. Food had been purely utilitarian, selected for nutrition. "But that doesn't mean it isn't true," he added as an afterthought.

Aerith hunched forward, bringing her knees up to her chest.

"When I was sick my mother would always make me the best chicken noodle soup. And rice boiled with milk, with cinnamon sugar on top. Lemon tart if I was good." She sighed, opening and closing her eyes very slowly. She looked utterly exhausted. "If I don't die in these mountains, I'm going to have lemon tart as soon as we get to Icicle Inn. Lemon tart and opera cake. And strawberries. Fresh strawberries. With whipped cream." She laid her head on her knees. "What I wouldn't give for some right now, or a great big mug of hot chocolate."

Sephiroth looked at her. He could not imagine or remember what the taste was like for any of those things, though he could certainly identify them if they were put in front of him. He said nothing.

The most he had been hoping for at Icicle Inn was a warm, secure room and a fresh change of clothes. But, it was true, they could probably afford anything they wanted to once they got there, if they made it. He estimated he was easily carrying tens of millions of gils' worth of gems sewn into the lining of his coat, and fifty thousand gil more in currency. Aerith was carrying almost as much. There might be time for pleasure, for luxuries. He smirked slightly to himself, considering the many ways these words could manifest. He could, as they said, make up for lost time.

Aerith went on, talking dreamily, elaborating about the food she missed, about summers in the meadows, the flowers she had grown. Sephiroth listened, letting her words paint images in his mind of a place he never knew; a softly glowing world of warmth and sunshine, rich with a million small pleasures. They passed the bowl of snowmelt water between them, drinking deeply. Eventually the sun dropped behind the rocks, bathing the camp in deep blue shadow.

Aerith got up, suddenly self conscious.

"Thank you for listening. I know I talk too much."

"You don't. I speak too little."

There was bitterness in his voice, just the barest trace. Aerith glanced at him, then up at the darkening sky. She leaned back, stretching stiffly so that the snow fell lightly on her face, brushing her lashes.

"Why don't you tell me something, then, about you?"

He looked down, fidgeting with his fork. "I don't remember much. What I do is…not pleasant. I doubt you'd like to hear about the labs, and Soldier."

"You should try me sometime."

Sephiroth pushed the last bite of food around on his plate with his fork. "Yes," he said simply. He speared his food, not inelegantly, and bit it, chewing slowly so as to not to have to say anything further. He stared out over the ridge, out into the falling snow, his mind turned inward, working. Aerith waited for him to finish chewing. It took her a few moments to realize that he wasn't going to answer her.

"I'm going back to the shelter," she said, a little more curtly than she wanted to. "Do you need help with anything?"

"No. I'll be there soon."

Sephiroth turned to the remains of their meal, now just scraps in the bottom of the cooking pot. He took the pot and the spoons they had used to eat with to the edge of camp, using snow to scrub them clean. As he worked there was a rustling under the snow about twenty feet away, just barely audible. Sephiroth froze and waited, listening intently. The rustling continued, getting closer, until at last a tiny arctic ermine poked its head out of the surface of the snow. Only slightly longer than a man's hand, it pulled its lithe body out of the tunnel it had come from and pattered a few steps back and forth, barely disturbing the surface of the snow. The ermine watched him eagerly, sniffing toward the remains of the food. When it was immediately not forthcoming, it scrubbed the snow off of its face and whiskers with its little round paws, then returned to staring at Sephiroth impatiently, tilting its head this way and that. Vaguely amused, he tossed it one of the scraps, a shred of yak meat. The ermine sniffed at it cautiously, nibbled a corner to test it, then gobbled it down, the whiskers in its masked face twitching. Sephiroth fed it everything he could find in the bottom of the pot, then scrubbed the rest out with snow and tossed that on the ground. He flicked a little of the greasy snow towards it, then got up to go. When Sephiroth looked back, it was gone.

The snow had stopped falling. The sled and shelter were covered in three inches of glittering white fluff, light as eiderdown. It would be warmer to sleep tonight, Sephiroth thought, even if it made moving around more difficult. Sephiroth opened the flap of the shelter and ducked into the darkness inside.

Aerith shrieked and clutched her parka to her chest. She was sitting cross-legged on her bedroll, naked to the waist. A packet of bandages were laid out before her. The light materia was in her lap, covered by the tail of her coat. Pale light leaked along the edge of it and shone through the thin parts of the cloth.

"Why are you always so damned quiet?" Aerith snarled. Even in the dim light he could tell that her face was pink, her ears pinker.

Unnerved, Sephiroth sat down sharply, facing away from her. He pulled off his boots. He wished, vainly, that there was somewhere, anywhere, that he could go, or that he had stayed outside just a few moments longer.

"What are you treating?" he said at last.

"My shoulders. The harness is rubbing my skin off. I've already tried healing them but they're still bleeding."

Sephiroth opened his pack and dug out a small metal tube of antibiotic. Still facing the other way, he placed it next to her on her bedroll.

"Use this before you use your healing spell. You don't want to seal in bacteria."

Sephiroth laid down, keeping his back to her. Minutes passed as Aerith attended to her wounds. Her clothes rustled as she dressed. Sephiroth heard her whisper to the light materia. The shelter went completely black. She laid down beside him in the dark. For a while he listened to her tight, anxious breathing.

"What's wrong?" he asked, finally. His tone was neutral.

"It just stings a little."

"Can you cast?"

She sighed. "I've done all I can today."

"Should I try?"

There was a pause. "Yes. Please."

Sephiroth sat up and closed his eyes. Healing could be done at any time, in a tenth of a second, in the chaos of battle, but it worked best if it could be attended to. With an inhalation of his breath he summoned the magic up into himself, feeling the familiar resistance as he drew from his materia, the tension building under his breastbone. He held it there, letting it squeeze his heart as the spell gathered power. Like an exhalation of warm air he released it and it went from him in a blossom of cascading green stars that sparkled and faded.

"Better?" Sephiroth asked.

"I'll be alright now."

"Bandage the area anyway. No sense having to repair it again tomorrow." He peeled back the cover of his bedroll and got inside, draping the fabric over his head to conserve heat. He closed his eyes, felt the weariness in his body. He heard Aerith moving around, the crinkling of the waxed paper the bandages were folded in, as she wrapped and stowed them. Then silence.

"Sephiroth?"

He opened his eyes, wondering if he had really heard her. A moment passed, and she called his name again. Sephiroth opened the cover of his bedroll and turned towards her. It was dark but his eyes had adjusted enough so that could see that she was sitting up, looking down at him, her face framed by the blue-black embroidery on her tunic. Her eyes were huge and sad.

"I'm sorry. I just wanted to say…" her mouth opened and closed lightly as she searched for her words "Thank you."

"There's nothing to thank me for."

Aerith looked down, her mouth a thin line. Tentatively, she reached out and touched his coverlet, resting her hand on the place where she guessed his arm or his shoulder might be. Sephiroth felt the light weight of her touch on his bicep. He froze, bewildered at her strange behavior. She pressed once or twice, afraid to look at him, then she suddenly took her hand away.

"You need your sleep." She said. She seemed jittery and embarrassed. "Sorry to bother you."

Sephiroth said nothing. He heard her settle down, throw the cover over her head. He turned over and laid facing her. In the narrow space between his bedroll and coverlet he saw the curve of her back in relief. Why had she thanked him, for what? He had cast healing spells for her before, it was hardly notable. Sephiroth considered her look, the haunted, hungry look in her eyes as she had touched him. What had she wanted? He couldn't make sense of it. He lapsed into sleep before he could think of an answer.

Aerith shivered under her bedroll. The darkness around her seemed endless, and she felt strangely insubstantial, as if she would suddenly disappear. For the thousandth time, she thought of her people, of her mother, but her memories seemed to be made of smoke and did not comfort her. She thought of Sephiroth, lying beside her, silently sleeping. The preternatural stillness of his jade green eyes always seemed to conceal everything while holding out the promise of untold depths within; she wondered if she would ever really know even half of what was inside of him. She hoped, truly, that somewhere in there he had at least one happy memory to hold on to.

Aerith wriggled her toes inside of her thick socks. Finally, she was starting to warm up and she was feeling peacefully drowsy. The pain she had had in her chest had vanished with Sephiroth's spell, and she breathed deep and clear and easy as she gradually dropped off to sleep.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

"You need to try harder!" Sephiroth shouted over the raging storm. It had already been a bad day and the sudden wrathful change in the weather was about to make it worse.

"I'm trying!"Aerith shouted, laboring up past her knees in deep snow. She struggled and fell, pulling herself up with difficulty.

The sled was bogging down, Sephiroth could feel it. If they didn't keep it moving, soon it would be impossible to budge. The wind had been getting stronger as they gained altitude, and now, as they approached the crest of the high pass, threatened to crush them flat. Thick flakes beat down upon them, encrusting their clothes and the sled with a cumbersome layer of ice. The air and the ground was one flat field of shifting, seething whiteness and it was impossible to tell what direction they were travelling in, or if they were making any progress at all.

"We cannot stop, Aerith. We have to make the pass."

She nodded and charged forward, putting her back into it. The harness creaked with the strain. From somewhere in the sky, a harsh cracking sound boomed and reverberated across the mountain peaks.

"What was that?" Aerith screamed.

"Maybe an avalanche. Maybe thunder. Just go, keep moving."

Aerith glanced upward nervously. The wind drove icy needles of snow between her hood and the cowl of her coat. Together they struggled forward, bent under their load and the force of the gale, one hard gained step at a time. Sephiroth glanced at the pale screen of the nav-sat, scrubbed the ice from it with the back of his glove. It flickered, then obediently spat out their coordinates. _Just a little more_, he thought,_ just_ _get to the other side, out of the wind…_

As they approached narrow mouth of the pass, the snow poured down on them in a torrential sheet. Visibility beyond a foot or two in front of them was impossible.

"I don't know if I can do this much longer!" Aerith shouted, gasping with the strain.

"Soon we won't have to. Just keep going."

Sound crashed around them, frighteningly close, like great rocks breaking. Blinded by the driving snow, Sephiroth turned, searching for the source. Aerith had stopped just a few steps behind him. She was standing strangely and looked stunned, holding her hands over her ears as the din became intolerable.

"Aerith!"

She looked up at him, and suddenly everything went blurry and slow. As if in a dream, Sephiroth saw two pairs of great white wings open in the swirling snow above her, followed by a snarl of long blue-white claws. Before he could register what was happening, he saw Aerith take a step backward, falter, then jerk suddenly up into the air like a rag doll. Sephiroth heard her scream, a long piercing wail, a tenth of a second before his own harness cinched tight, crushing his ribs, and he was pulled free of the ground.

He was airborne, spinning wildly, out of control and upside down, caught in his harness like an insect in a spider's web. Aerith was screaming, again and again. Sephiroth twisted his body, trying to free his legs of the webbing that entangled them, struggling to get to his sword. Snow was beating in his face; he was choking on it. From the whiteness a great beaked mouth bit at him. Deep blue fire burned within it, illuminating rows and rows of jagged spines lining the depths of its throat. As it drew back its head to attempt another bite, Sephiroth caught a glimpse of his own reflection, mirrored in six pairs of blank ruby eyes. He cast two spells in rapid succession, the last he knew he could cast today, a sparkling flare of bright magenta heat and seething green poison that crackled and burned. The creature shrugged off the flare as if it were a faint spring breeze, but the poison struck it hard. The spell caught it down the length of its long neck, shriveling its bristling feathers and blacking its skin like a forest fire. Enraged, its scorched skin weeping, it swooped in. Sephiroth struck out at the vulnerable eyes, chopping with the side of his free hand, but the creature dropped supernaturally fast, folding its wings and twisting suddenly out of his reach. It reappeared a second later on the other side of him, striking with its feet.

Cruel claws raked his side, tearing through his parka like tissue paper. Sephiroth screamed in pain and kicked with his free leg, connecting with something that snapped and shrieked and disappeared in a flurry of wings. He swung wildly, one hand twisted behind his back, still searching for the hilt of his sword.

Aerith had stopped screaming. She was shouting something, but he could not hear what she was saying. Sephiroth gasped for breath. They were climbing too high, too fast. Blood from his injured side ran underneath his clothes and dripped up his neck and into his ear, deafening him. Somehow, his numb fingers felt the corded wrapping of Masamune's hilt. He closed both hands around it and pulled. Before he could free it completely from its sheath, he was seized and shaken, the creatures' long blue claws wrapping around his chest and digging into his back. He felt the tether that connected him to the sled suddenly shear free, the unbearable tightness in his chest releasing as it fell away. The creature snapped at his face, bathing him with breath that burned like acid. Finally freed, Sephiroth kicked up off of the creature's feathered body, drawing back Masamune and stabbing it shallowly into its chest. He pulled back, rotating the blade in a neat crescent, carving off one of its thrashing wings. The creature screamed, its severed wing falling away in an explosion of bone and blood and feathers. It tried to rake him again with its long claws, but Sephiroth twisted in the air, bashing at them with the pommel of his sword. The creature wheeled away, shrieking, and dissolved below him into the pelting snow, only to be replaced by more from above. He never saw them completely, only in parts, as their lithe bodies appeared and disappeared within the clouds and snow.

Sephiroth swept Masamune in a wide arc, trying to keep them away, but their claws and beaks were everywhere, tearing at him. He glanced up. Aerith was casting something, something big. The sky above him was glowering green, spangling and flashing with light as she gathered her power.

_Come on Aerith…Flare, Meteo, anything…_he thought, slashing furiously at the creature biting at his feet. He had used almost everything he had on healing her enough that morning just to get her up and moving. Spots were dancing in his eyes. Much higher and they would asphyxiate. Fighting unconsciousness, gasping for breath, Sephiroth drove his blade deep into the mouth of the creature that bit at him. It gargled, dark blue blood erupting from its burning esophagus, the blade protruding from its back. The other creatures screamed, biting at him from above and below, but he could not free his blade. They slashed through the thick webbing of the harness, snarling their claws in the slack ends. Cut loose, Aerith was pulled higher into the storm, out of sight.

The air above him seethed and crackled, ionically charged, the magic gathering itself in preparation for a mighty pulse. Sephiroth strained upward, searching the sky for the first red flicker of flame that would be their salvation. The air compressed in a deep blue halo. Sephiroth had just enough time to realize what was happening before the first shock wave hit him. _Water, you chose Water…_he thought,hisears popping the second before ten million gallons of it burst ex nihlio into being. The force of the reaction instantly shattered the wings of the creatures around Aerith; they froze, their long ribbon bodies twisting as they fell. Sephiroth saw Aerith drop past him, saw her terror, her wide green eyes. Diving between the beating wings of an attacking creature, at the limit of the his tether would allow, he grabbed for her. He flailed wildly, screaming her name, but the creature that has his harness pulled him away. Aerith was swept down into the swirling darkness and lost.

With an unholy shriek that sounded like shearing metal, the creatures that were still alive closed in. Their wings were heavy and brittle with ice and made a whistling noise as they swooped toward him. Nearing the end of his strength, Sephiroth hacked at the creature above him, cutting at its legs where they gripped him with its claws. The creature bit back but would not release him. Sephiroth swiped again and cut at its feet, severing one in a shower of blue-black blood.

Suddenly, he was free. Soaked in freezing slush, Sephiroth hurtled to earth. The long shredded remnants of his harness had wrapped around the carcass of one of the creatures. It fell with him, its dead wings flapping lamely as he spiraled downward, faster and faster. Utterly exhausted and no longer caring, Sephiroth opened his arms, letting the wind rip through them. The long edge of Masamune's blade caught the air and was torn from his grasp, falling end over end out into the void. Sephiroth's vision spangled as he began to black out. As his eyes faded he thought of Aerith, falling somewhere below him, crushed deep into the earth. _We tried_, he thought with his last thought, _I am so sorry_.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Flapping. Something was flapping. Why wouldn't someone stop that infernal noise? Sephiroth tried to open his eyes, but they wouldn't open. There was pressure on his eyelids, and they felt sticky, as if they were taped closed. Something thin and sharp was jabbing him in the forehead and his scalp in several places. The back of his head felt cold and open, and something wet was running down the backs of his ears and his neck. He was lying on his stomach, on a hard flat surface, his arms spread out to his sides. They wouldn't move, either, held down by a thick plastic strap that cut into his skin. He swallowed, choking audibly on the tube in his throat. A monitor started racing, then another picked up the chorus.

"He's up, he's up!" someone shouted.

"How can he be up?" a voice close to his head said incredulously. "I didn't see a theta spike on the monitors."

There was a scuffling noise; slippered feet moving quickly over a tile floor. He heard someone scrabbling in a drawer. The alarms continued to blare.

"Well, what the hell are you waiting for? Should we stand around until he's fully conscious, so we can debate the existence or non-existence of a theta spike? Do your goddamn job, before Hojo shows up."

Sephiroth heard a sliding door open. A cold gust of air followed it. There was a second of silence as everyone in the room froze.

"Welcome, Professor. He's in the stereotax; we were just preparing to place the first cannula."

"Excellent. As it is his final injection series, I thought it fitting I should perform it myself." The voice. There was no mistaking it.

A new monitor screamed into life as Sephiroth's heart rate hit a hundred and ninety beats per minute.

"Knock him down, knock him down, _now_," a voice growled nearby.

The rushing in his ears grew intolerable, the flapping noise drowning out everything else. He had to get out, had to get away…

Sephiroth awoke with his face pressed into the glassy snow, his cheek burning with frostbite. Disoriented, his heart still hammering in his throat, he rolled over and tried to rise, but it hurt too much to move any further. He opened his eyes. He was not in the labs. He was still somewhere in the mountains. It must have been an old memory, shaken loose by the fall.

Sephiroth fought for consciousness, blinking hard to stay awake. How long had he been unconscious? His goggles were shattered. One side had been completely broken away. Ice had frozen on his eyelashes, making it difficult to see. He pulled the ruined goggles off and threw them away. The wind howled, blowing grainy snow over him. Other than dim shadows nearby that suggested a rocky crag, he could see nothing but choppy fields of snow in all directions. He could still hear the flapping sound coming from somewhere in the distance, like a flag or some kind of fabric was being buffeted back and forth in the wind. Sephiroth turned back over onto his belly and tried to rise to his knees. A searing pain shot down his side when he tried to move, and he collapsed into the snow, gasping. He breathed a healing spell, once, twice, then tried again. Slowly, he got up onto his knees and knelt there, stunned, his head swimming perilously. Somehow, he was still alive.

The crushed body of the creature was lying several feet away, buried deep in the snowpack. Sharp blue and white quills were scattered in all directions, dug point down into the snow like arrows. A length of his harness was wrapped around the creatures' body, the free end of it dancing in the wind. Sephiroth tried opening the hasps of his harness, but the metal catch had warped from the strain and was stuck closed. Sephiroth tugged at the other end of the harness, to see if it would come loose. The strap was folded many times under the full weight of the creature and wouldn't move, either. Suddenly his side stabbed sharply, the pain bright enough to give him pause. Sephiroth looked down. All the way down his left side, his parka was tattered and bloodstained, and he noticed a strange gurgling noise starting to come in his chest when he breathed. Something was very wrong, but there was no way to look at it here, out in the open, tethered to this huge dead thing. He had to cut himself loose and get to shelter… Sephiroth felt around in the snow, growing more desperate by the second. Where was Masamune? He shuffled around on his knees, searching as far as the strap would allow him to go in all directions, but he could find nothing.

Exhausted and bleeding, Sephiroth lay back and tried to think. The harness was tough, thick nylon webbing. It was strong enough to tow a car. He had nothing to cut with. Fire would work, if he could cast. He'd have to be careful. Sephiroth twisted himself away from the creature as far as he could and covered his head with his arms. With effort he called the least powerful fire spell that came to mind, centering it on the creatures' carcass. It smoldered and singed on the wet feathers, fizzling dull red. He tried again, with something stronger. The spell poured a wall of flames over the ground, igniting the feathers in earnest. The sudden heat scorched his throat. The fox fur around his hood began to singe. Anxious to get away from the consuming blaze, Sephiroth pulled on the harness in a burst of strength. It came apart with a satisfying snap and bowled him over. Sephiroth dragged the line free and staggered to his feet.

He took a few steps in the direction of the flapping sound, glancing back to watch the carcass burn. The nav-sat was lost; the sled and all their supplies, lost. He had only what was on his back, which wasn't much. He thought of Aerith, the grim realization dawning on him as he walked. Trying to control a rising sense of panic, Sephiroth stopped and called for her, shouting her name in all directions. He listened intently for a reply. Nothing. Nothing. The wind drove hard against him with a sudden gust. He stumbled backward, clutching his side as the pain poured more white hot suffering into his lungs.

She too, was most certainly lost. The most he could hope for would be to find her body, if he could even find that. The thought filled him with despair. Their entire struggle, her suffering, what had it been for, if she was gone now? Sephiroth kept walking, barely conscious of what was around him, his mind swimming in a black morass of emptiness and pain. He would go on to the Forgotten Capital alone if he could make it. It was the least he could do, for her memory.

Sephiroth soldiered on through the bleak landscape. From time to time he thought he heard a voice, someone calling faintly behind the wind, but every time he stopped to listen he could not hear it. Night would be falling soon. Already the sky and snow were beginning to gray and dim. With a fresh burst of energy fuelled by a terror of being caught out alone in the dark, Sephiroth quickened his pace.

He kept his eyes on the ground, hunched over as he walked. His side felt like a red hot poker was being jabbed into it, and twisted, with every step. A fluid heaviness was building in his chest. He stopped suddenly, involuntarily seized in a fit of coughing. When it was over, he could taste the sharp iron tang of blood in his mouth. He spat it onto the snow. He gathered what little of his strength remained and cast a healing spell. Hopefully it would stop the internal bleeding.

He paused just a moment to rest, still keeping his feet. He looked at the ground before him, then noticed something strange. Blue feathers were blowing toward him in the wind. For a second he wondered if somehow he had been walking in circles, coming back upon where he had been. But no, the flapping sound was much closer than he had ever heard it before. Sephiroth squinted off into the distance. Snow was falling thickly now, making it difficult to see. Through the dimming haze he thought he could make out the shape of something large lying on the ground. He hurried toward it, as fast as he could manage in the thick snow. There were more feathers littering the ground as he approached. The jagged outline of a pair of great blue wings stuck up into the air. Several creatures had fallen together, their broken bodies twisted in a heap. He scanned them hurriedly, trying not to hope. He was strangely frightened when his hope was rewarded.

Aerith was at the top of the pile, lying on her side, arched head down over the lithe snakelike body of one of the creatures. One arm was over her head, her legs crumpled off to the side. She looked like a doll that had been carelessly tossed in a corner and forgotten.

Sephiroth clambered over the feathered bodies of the dead creatures and brushed the snow off of her supine body, his heart pounding. He was almost afraid to look. Her eyes were closed, her skin ash-white. There was no blood or wounds anywhere that he could see. He brushed the snow from her face and put one arm behind her back to ease her up. Gingerly, he unzipped the neck of her parka and loosened her scarf, placing his hand on the side of her throat. The pulse beneath his fingers pumped weakly, just barely discernable. He cupped his fingers lightly over her mouth. Yes, she was still breathing. He said her name, several times, shaking her lightly, but she did not respond. With the last of his dwindling strength, he tried to call a healing spell. For several long moments he labored; calling the magic was like dragging a heavy stone up from the bottom of a murky lake, then pulling it uphill. It took everything he had. At last the spell broke, shimmering in the air around them in a rain of green stars. Sephiroth hunched over Aerith's body and waited, panting and lightheaded from the ordeal. Gradually he felt his chest clearing, his side sparking a little less from the pain.

He tried calling Aerith's name again, but still she would not rouse from her stupor. It was twilight now, and the temperature was dropping like a stone. He had to get to shelter, if there was any kind of shelter to be had. Sephiroth gathered Aerith into his arms, her body floppy and limp. Careful not to overbalance, he eased himself down off the monster's carcasses and continued toward the sound in the distance.

Sephiroth trudged onward, focusing only on the sound, hearing it grow and die with the wind. His muscles were stiffening up from the cold and it was getting difficult to force them to keep going. He was getting tired, so profoundly tired. It would be good to rest, if only for a little while. Carefully, he eased down onto his knees, keeping Aerith on his lap. He closed his eyes, just for a moment. The blackness behind his eyes seemed absolute, swallowing him down with incredible gravity. He felt heavy, like everything was sliding away. Suddenly he felt his body pitch forward and the ground leapt up and turned, and he was sliding down, powerless to stop it. Darkness came instantly, plunging him into silence. Then, suddenly, he felt the stinging of the ice raining on his face, the howling of the wind, and he was back in the storm. For a second he thought he heard someone walking toward him, quickly, their footsteps crunching on the icy snowpack, and he mustered all his strength to open his eyes. Aerith's body was weighing him down, but over the curve of her shoulder he thought he saw the form of a woman in a white cloak coming toward him. He tried to sit up as she came closer but could not. The woman stood over him. Her cloak was wrapped around her tightly and draped over her shoulders. She held a piece of it lightly across her face so that he could only see her burning, luminous green eyes. Somehow he knew that she hated him; it was palpable.

"Get up," said the woman cruelly, and her words shook him. It took a second for him to realize that he did not perceive her with his ears, but instead her voice was concentrated directly in his brain. "Do not fail us, Son of the Stars. Get up. Get moving. Now!"

Her words were like an electric shock. He forced himself to his feet, but it was as if someone else were controlling his body and he was just a passenger lost deep somewhere within it. Mechanically, he gathered Aerith back into his arms and took a step forward, then another, then another. Raising his head, he realized that the woman had vanished, but there were tracks on the ground and he followed them. They grew lighter and lighter, then eventually disappeared into nothing, as if the woman had dissolved into the air. Dizzy and reeling, he scanned the landscape in front of him. There was the shape of something dark and angular ahead, the shapes just visible through the pelting snow. The rippling sound was closer than ever. He pressed onward, his bleeding side a misery at every step.

In the strange half-light it seemed as if the entire surface of the snow before him was moving, heaving like ocean waves around seven black squarish shapes. Sephiroth blinked, trying to make sense of what he was seeing, trying to decide if it was wise to approach. No, no, the ground was moving only in parts. The black shapes were quite still. His arms screaming with the effort, he lowered Aerith to the ground and knelt next to her. He checked her pulse and her breathing, then felt on the inside of her left boot. The ivory handled knife was still there, strapped in its sheath just above the inside of her ankle. Good. At least he wouldn't be completely unarmed. He shoveled snow around Aerith's body to try to keep her warm, then started off the last hundred meters to investigate.

Sephiroth approached the rippling white sea. As he got closer he realized that it wasn't the ground that was moving, or the snow, but yards and yards of billowing white silk, parachute silk, connected to a group of shipping containers. The containers were lying scattered in the snow at irregular angles, sticking upended into the sky or half buried deep in the snowpack. They were all locked with heavy sliding bars, unopenable without Masamune. One of the containers looked promising, and Sephiroth went over to examine it. It had landed on the junction of its long side, crumpling it just enough so that there was a gap in bottom of the door. The opening was wide enough to crawl through. Shelter. It would be enough.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Shivering uncontrollably, Sephiroth made his way back to Aerith in the near dark. His muscles shook when he tried to lift her, his side twinging sharply as a warning and he fell forward onto his knees. He groaned, getting to his feet with difficulty. He had reached the end of his strength. Sephiroth seized Aerith by her pack straps and dragged her the last hundred meters through the snow. Night had fallen completely by the time he reached the mouth of the container. He searched Aerith's pockets for the light materia, calling immediately for illumination when he found it. He dug in the snow with his hands, clearing more space at the opening of the container. With the knife at the ready, Sephiroth stuck the light matieria inside. Thousands of small white ceramic spools, wound with thick silvery wire, glittered in the dark, nothing more.

Sephiroth pushed himself inside, climbing up onto the mountain of spools. He flattened out a space where he could sit. The container was about half full; there was just enough room for him to crouch on top of the spools without his head hitting the ceiling. His body was quaking with fatigue as he knelt down at the opening of the container and pulled Aerith inside. She grimaced when he moved her, and weakly flexed the fingers of her right hand, but otherwise remained unresponsive. He laid her on a flattened bed of spools, then went back out into the storm. The illumination from the light materia was just enough to help him find what he wanted. Using the thin blade of the ivory handled knife, he cut the leads of two of the parachutes, struggling to keep them bundled before the wind pulled them away. He hobbled backward, dragging them into the container.

Once inside, he shook the snow from the parachutes as well as he could and pushed them into a corner. The voluminous fabric filled half of the space. He knelt on it and smoothed it down, trying to create a space where they could lie. Aerith still had not moved. He tried waking her again, to no avail. After taking a few moments to catch his breath, he crawled over to her and undid her pack. Unlike his, which had been torn and half ripped apart, hers seemed relatively untouched. Her bedroll was still attached to the bottom of it. He pulled it out of its straps and zipped it open, laying it over top of the bottom layer of the parachute. Crouching over her, he shifted Aerith onto the thick fabric, positioning her on her right side so it would be a little easier for her to breathe. He undid her boots and set them aside, rubbing her feet lightly to restore some circulation. Satisfied that he had done all he could for her for the present, he folded the other side of the bedroll over her and turned away.

Sephiroth sat on the edge of the parachute, propping himself up against the wall of the container. He cut himself free of his harness and unzipped his coat. He peeled it open carefully, sucking his breath through his teeth as the pain flared, razor-bright. The damage to his side was worse than he had thought, a deep ragged gash in his ribs, half healed and oozing. The stone container for the Tears, always kept in the inside chest pocket of his coat, had been cracked into pieces, the sharp edges stabbing through the back side of the fabric and into the wound. Sephiroth opened the pocket. The bottom had of it had been slashed. Most of the Tears were gone. Only a few shards of the container remained, the ones that were embedded in his side. Picking through the shredded cloth, he pulled them out. They shimmered in his palm and he closed his sticky bloodstained fingers over them. So little. Not enough to do much. He put them aside.

Shaking with cold, his breath coming in great gusts of steam, he pulled off his pack and opened it. There were a few canned goods left, a half-empty gas canister, a bottle of alcohol, some bandages, other odds and ends that weren't particularly useful. Sephiroth spread it all out onto the spools until he found the clothes he was looking for. He stripped off his ruined and dirty coat and pulled up the two bloodsoaked layers he was wearing to expose the wound underneath. Working quickly, he poured a generous amount of the alcohol onto his side, cursing as it fizzled and burned, then turned to ice. Sephiroth swabbed at the wound, getting up as much of the blood as he could. With numb and trembling fingers he packed gauze over the worst of it, wrapping a few layers of cloth around his chest to keep it in place. He stripped off the ruined clothes, exchanging them for the fresh undershirt and sweater he found in his pack. He wrapped his coat back around himself. He sat still for a moment, deeply chilled, trying to gather warmth, his knees drawn up to his chest, his arms folded across them, his hands stuffed under his arms. While he shivered he looked at Aerith, lying as still as a corpse in the puffy white cloth. She seemed worse, if anything, her weak breaths coming further and further apart. He wondered if she would last the night. Vainly, he tried to call one last healing spell, laboring and laboring for minutes without success until he was almost sick with the effort. Sephiroth leaned against the cold wall of the container, spots dancing in his eyes. He was certain he would pass out if he tried to cast again. There was not much more he could do until he regained his strength, except let nature run its course.

Sephiroth pulled off his ice crusted boots and sat for a moment, rubbing the feeling back into his feet. The shards of the Tears glittered in the dark, just out of reach of the light materia. He picked them up and wiped them with his fingertips. There was just enough residue left on them to thinly cover the pad of his thumb.

He crawled over to Aerith, peeled back the bedroll and laid down on his side facing her. Carefully, afraid to move her too quickly, he gathered her up onto his chest, tucking her inside his open coat. With the fingers of his right hand he reached under her hair and inscribed the first character on the back of her neck. He thought of the woman who had appeared, who had goaded him on, of her burning green eyes, so similar to Aerith's. _I'm trying_, he thought, to her. _I am only a man._ Aerith took no notice, but only continued to sleep, breathing weakly onto his throat. Sephiroth pulled the thick layer of the bedroll over them. The subtle throb of Aerith's heartbeat pulsed weakly against his sternum, reassuring in its regularity. He slept, but barely, waking in fits and starts, terrified that he would wake up to find her dead. But eventually, the last of his strength was overcome, and he was pulled down into oblivion.

It was impossible to tell how long he drifted, consciousness and dream weaving and blurring together in a warm unending flow of sensation and image. He dreamt over and over that someone was crying for him; that somehow he must find them, though he didn't know how. He searched endlessly, lost in a landscape of blowing snow, never finding what he was looking for.

Gradually, the dreams began to fade and the real world materialized. On his throat he felt the light touch of cold fingers, they travelled up his face, over his mouth, brushed his eyelashes, his temples, felt the curve of his ears. He heard his name, in a quiet voice that was tremulous and raspy, but instantly recognizable.

"Aerith?" Sephiroth opened his eyes. It was completely dark, and he felt for the light matieria but couldn't find it.

"Shh. Listen." She seemed agitated, and her hands clenched and worried at the fabric of his shirt.

He did. He heard nothing but his heart beating.

"I don't hear anything."

"Shh." Her voice was sharper. "Listen. Remember: the sickle. The crow. The crown."

His mind raced. She seemed delirious; perhaps she had sustained head trauma from the fall? "I'll remember," he assured her. "Don't worry."

"Good, good." She relaxed, settled back down onto him, exhausted. She slept fitfully for hours and hours, twitching like a dreaming dog, anxiously murmuring words he couldn't understand. Eventually she was still, so still it frightened him.

In the deep blackness of the container, Sephiroth sat up. He blindly felt her face, her hands. She was lying on her side, completely limp, her skin cold and clammy.

"Aerith?" He called her name several times more, loudly, but she was unresponsive. He knelt next to her and clasped her head in his hands, bending down and putting his ear next to her mouth, to see if she was still breathing. She wasn't.

_You cannot die now. You just can't_, he thought. He wasted no time, casting two powerful healing spells in rapid succession. He fumbled at her neck, searching for her heartbeat. Her pulse still throbbed, weak and erratic. There was still a chance. He felt for her hands, found her fingertips and pinched them cruelly, hoping the pain would stimulate her sympathetic nervous system. He ran down the protocol he knew he was to follow in such a circumstance. If she didn't respond, he would attempt rescue breathing, if her heart stopped, he would begin chest compressions, if neither brought her back…well, he would deal with it if it came.

He dug in with his nails, breaking the skin. Aeriths' hand jerked away from his, reflexively. She took in a deep, whooping breath. Another breath followed it, then another and another. Sephiroth seized her, gathering her up in his arms and crushed her to his chest, feeling her ribs expand and contract as she breathed, this time strong and sure. He buried his face into her neck, gasping with relief.

Sudden shame brought him up short. He asked himself the reason for this behavior, what purpose it served, and what it meant, but he could not give a reasonable explanation. Gently, he laid her down onto her back, holding her hands. They were slightly warmer now. He cast a healing spell, watching her serene face glimmer in the green glow before everything faded to black. Sephiroth lay down beside her, bundled the parachute tightly around them both, and waited.

Sephiroth snapped his eyes open. He had fallen asleep, who knew for how long. He could feel Aerith moving; it seemed as if she was trying to nestle closer to him, very slowly.

"Aerith?"

"Hmm?" she said.

"You're alive," he said, suddenly breathless.

He felt her nod against his chest. "Yes. I don't know how. I just remember fighting, the spell going off, and starting to fall." She sighed again, deeper this time. She shuddered. "Everything hurts."

"Here" , He cast another spell for her, for them both.

"That's a little better," she said.

Sephiroth found the light materia. His eyes dazzled when he lit it, and he wondered how many days they had lain there.

Aerith looked around, at the corrugated metal ceiling, the layers of white fabric bundled around them, the heaps of spools.

"What is this place?"

"Some kind of shipping container."

"Do you know where we are?"

"No. The nav-sat is lost. The sled as well."

She sighed, and mumbled something.

"What is it?"

She cleared her throat and repeated:"Do we have the Tears?"

"The container shattered. I used what little we had on you."

She was quiet for a while.

"It probably saved my life," she said at last. It seemed as if she wanted to say more, but held back.

Aerith edged herself away from him, out from under his coat, suddenly conscious of his body and the terrible intimacy she was sharing with it. Sephiroth felt her recoil, tension suddenly present in her, but let her go. He sat up and left her, busying himself by looking in the packs for something to eat. His side was slightly sore, still pink with knitting skin when he looked at it, but felt enormously better. Already it was markedly easier to breathe and move.

"I'm not sure what this could be," he said, turning to Aerith with a small tin a little bigger than his fist. It was scorched on one side; it had probably come from the remains of Baral's camp. "Should we try it?"

She nodded.

"We can't use the burner, the fumes will kill us in this small space. We'll have to eat it cold."

"That's ok," she said, her eyes closed. She still seemed terribly weak. Sephiroth pressed the edge of an army-style can opener into the lip of the can and began to work it open "What were those…things…that attacked us?" Aerith asked. Her voice was tired.

"I'm not sure." His mind quickly raced through his mental bestiary and gave him an image of a similarly feathered, double winged snake. "They somewhat resemble Sparhawks, perhaps these have just adapted to the arctic climate."

His answer seemed to satisfy her.

"Here." He was kneeling before her with the open can, and a spoon.

She looked at the contents, a viscous caramel-colored liquid, warily.

"I think it's evaporated milk." He handed it to her. She tasted it, and her half opened eyes widened.

"Wrong. It's sweetened condensed. It's lovely. Have some." She passed him the can and the spoon. He tasted. It was sweet, buttery and full of fat. He handed the can back to her, marveling at the silkiness of its texture and the richness of its flavor. It was the best thing he had ever tasted in his life. He immediately wanted more of it.

"So, what do we do now?" Aerith was sitting up, and looking at him. The treat seemed to have strengthened her somewhat.

"I'm not sure. Masamune is lost somewhere out there. I can't go on without it."

She looked grave.

"Besides, we can't stay here for long. We don't have very many supplies, now that the sled is gone."

She nodded, then frowned at him. "And your poor coat. I just noticed."

He looked down. The fabric was stiff with dried blood and bits of down were weeping out of the rents in it.

"Yes, that as well."

"Anything I can do?"

"Rest. I'm just going to have a look around outside. I'll be right back."

Sephiroth took another spoonful of sweet milk, swallowing it slowly, savoring it. He began to gather his outdoor gear.

"Aerith?"

"Yes?"

"You didn't happen to hear the Ancients, did you? While you were unconscious?"

Aerith shook her head. "I think so. I'm not sure. Nothing seems clear. Why?"

"You said some strange things, as you were waking."

"Like what?"

"You asked me to remember some things."

"What?"

"Just some general names. The sickle, the crow, the crown."

Aerith looked a little unsettled. "I don't remember saying that."

Sephiroth scowled. He pulled his hood up, and tightened the pulls at the wrists of his gloves. He checked that the ivory handled knife was securely in its sheath.

"I'm going out now. I won't be gone long. Try to get as much rest as you can."

She nodded at him.

It was brilliant daylight outside, so bright it hurt. Sephiroth set out to search, eventually finding his way back to the heap of dead creatures where he had found Aerith. They were coated in a layer of crusty snow, several days worth. He searched around them, digging with his knife, looking for anything that might have fallen out of her pack or the sled, but found nothing. His eyes stinging from the glare, Sephiroth made his way back to the container.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

This first sound he heard when he entered the container was the regular ticking of the clock. "I'm glad you're back." Aerith said as soon as she heard him, poking her head out from under the snowy silk of the parachute. She was lying on her side with the light materia resting beside her. The clock was standing up next to her head, her eyes flicked from it to him as he came towards her. "Did you find anything?"

Sephiroth scowled. "No." His eyes felt as if his eyelids were lined with burning thistles. He blotted at them with the back of his sleeve. "I will try again later. Are you still hungry? If you have an appetite, you should eat, and build your strength."

"Maybe I'll have something. I'm just so cold, I can't think of anything else."

Sephiroth dug in her pack. "Here's the last of these." He held a half eaten packet of dried apples out to her, the ones she had opened on their first day, but Aerith kept her hands underneath the layers of parachute and didn't take them.

"You have some too."

Sephiroth sat next to her and pulled off his gloves. He shook a handful of fruit into his palm and handed her the rest.

"Thank you."

Sephiroth ate each piece of fruit one by one, the still missing Masamune wearying his thoughts. He put the last piece of fruit into his mouth and blinked his scorched eyes, chewing. He noticed with mild alarm that his vision had started to gray.

"Why don't you rest a little, if you're tired," Aerith said tentatively.

Sephiroth swallowed.

"I'm not. It's my eyes. I shouldn't have gone out without goggles. It's just a little snowblindness. It will pass."

"Can you heal it?"

"Not really. Nothing's really damaged, just overloaded." He opened his eyes. His vision had almost completely grayed over. "It should only last a few hours."

"Why don't you sleep, then?"

"I may as well."

Sephiroth reached out for the side of the container and crawled toward it, putting his back up against the outer wall. Leaning against it, he drew his knees up to his chest and put his arms around them, resting his head on his arms.

"Sephiroth?"

"Yes?"

"You can lie down. With me, I mean. If you want. You'll be warmer."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." He heard a rustling, felt the layers of parachute slide past him. "Get in quickly, before it gets any colder," she said. Her teeth were chattering.

Sephiroth took off his boots and gloves and laid his bloody coat aside. He felt for where she was holding open the layers of parachute and her bedroll and got inside, facing away from her. The fabric was warm and slightly damp where she had been breathing on it. She folded the layers back over them and tucked them in. A few moments passed. Aerith shivered unceasingly.

"Aren't you cold?" she asked.

"I am. "

"Wh-why-why aren't you shivering?"

"I don't know."

"Then hold me."

"What?"

"Please. Before I freeze to death."

She was wearing three sweaters, including one of his, her heavy leggings, and probably every pair of socks she owned. He turned over, feeling tentatively for her shoulder, not knowing where it was permittable to rest his hands. Aerith nestled against him, pressing her back into his belly. She took his searching hands and curled them in her own, resting them at her throat. Her fingers were like thin icy sticks. Aerith bowed her head so her breath might warm them. Sephiroth felt it washing over his knuckles where his hands folded over hers, felt it find its way into the hollow of his palms. The clock ticked quietly, a counterpoint to the rhythm of her breathing.

"What is your fascination with that clock?" Sephiroth asked, after several moments had passed. His initial shock at her forwardness had passed and now had settled into a baseline of nervous anxiety which he was desperately trying to crush.

"I just like it," she said. "It's beautiful. Someone took a lot of time and thought to make it. So it's like seeing someone's love, captured in a thing. But most of all I like it because it comforts me."

"How so?"

Aerith squeezed his hands and blew on them; Sephiroth felt her mouth brush his knuckle and resisted the impulse to pull away.

"Because it reminds me there's an order, that all things have their place, and their time."

"Hmm."

"You're skeptical."

"I am. The universe isn't just some giant clockwork. That's too neat, too simple. There are laws and rules, yes, but then there are things that go outside, that don't quite fit into the form."

Aerith was silent for a while. "Like us?"

"Maybe."

"Or maybe we just haven't found our place yet."

"We are very different things, you and I, Aerith. You forget."

"Yes, you're right…" She said it sadly, trailing off, deep in thought. Sephiroth kept still, his arm resting heavily on the curve of her ribcage. Even through the many layers she was wearing, he could tell she had grown painfully thin.

Aerith began slowly and methodically stroking the back of his hand with her thumb, tracking the faintly raised lines of the scars there. Even if it was only something she was doing absentmindedly, which she surely must be doing, Sephiroth wished she would stop. Gradually her touch unnerved him.

"Who are you thinking of?" he demanded, and pulled his hands away. It was the only thing that made sense, why she was behaving this way: she must be imagining someone else. He folded his arms across his chest, suddenly angry. He was not a doll that she could play with whenever she pleased.

Aerith blushed, embarrassed that she could be read so easily, although his conclusion was not strictly correct. She had actually wanted to touch him, to try to connect with him somehow. His scars were a million silent riddles that she wanted to possess, proof of all that he had suffered. It was something she could understand.

"I'm sorry. It's nothing," she said.

"But I am correct, am I not? Who were you thinking of?" Sephiroth didn't know why he suddenly had a burning desire to press her, why it mattered so much.

She sighed tightly. "He was a Soldier. You knew him, I think."

"His name," he demanded. Sephiroth thought back; there were a sea of faces, people clad in the standard issue blue and gray Soldier armor, the bright insignia of the officers who reported to him. There had been hundreds, thousands of them over the years. No one in particular stood out.

"He's been dead a long time…" Aerith was anxious to drop the matter, wanting to leave the past unremembered.

"It doesn't matter. I want to know."

"His name was Zack," Aerith said sharply, "Zack Fair." Her breath caught in her throat. She thought of him now and the image that came to her was more vivid than it had ever been before. She remembered the massy breadth of his chest, the narrowness of his waist, his thick dark hair, how it tapered to a point on the back of his neck, his rich good natured laugh. Zack had been her first, first everything, and, instinctively knowing this, he had handled her body and her heart carefully, with tender sweetness. But, he was dead and she had long ago reconciled herself with this, only glimpsing him from time to time in the gray hallways of her dreams. He had been warm and safe, completely unlike Sephiroth, who always looked at her with shrewd, dangerously intelligent eyes.

"I don't remember him." Sephiroth said dryly, and it was true. There was a thorn in his mind whenever he tried to remember his life as a general, very little stood out. Fatalistically, he had accepted that he wasn't meant to remember, and had not dwelt on it. But now he thought backwards from the present, repeating Zack's name to himself, trying to pry something, anything loose. He vaguely recalled a span bridge swaying across snowy peaks, cold wind, the dim shapes of a cobwebbed chandelier and a dust covered piano in an abandoned mansion, sharp black rocks underfoot. There was something, too, about a great green beast, a dragon, he thought. His shoulder twinged, remembering the lash of its wings. He was certain that there had been other people with him, but no image came that gave him a clue of who they were. Sephiroth's head started to hurt, adding another layer of annoyance besides his blind burning eyes, and he decided not to pursue it further. He thought instead of this man that he did not know, tried to imagine what it must have been like for him to be with her, for her to be with him. He thought of the couples he had seen; they had been at the periphery of his vision if he noticed them at all. He scraped together the little he could remember, from a million nameless towns and villages. Men and women talking and laughing in bars, walking hand in hand, pressed together in dark alleys.

"Did you love him?" he asked. He wasn't certain what that even meant.

"I was a very different person then."

"Answer the question."

"Yes. I'm sure I did. It's not a crime. Haven't you ever loved someone?"

"No," he said, without hesitation. "Not in that way," he corrected.

Aerith stiffened. "I suppose not. Have you ever wanted to?"

"It's not been my privilege."

He felt her turn over to face him. She was looking at him now, he could almost feel it. A moment passed, then another. He blinked his sightless eyes, growing more uncomfortable by the second.

"You are warm enough." He sat up suddenly, sweeping the layers of parachute off of them. He got up and away, feeling his way with his hands. Aerith said nothing, only let him go. He withdrew to his original spot, back against the wall, knees up to his chest. He put his head down on them and patiently waited for his sight to return.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

It had been six days since they had arrived at the container. Sephiroth went out to search every day without fail, for hours and hours, sometimes not returning until well after dark. When he did return he was restless and agitated, always on edge, painfully conscious of Masamune's absence and the seriousness of the situation they were in. Already they were had begun severely rationing the little food that remained and would have to cut back even more once they started moving. Aerith was recovering very slowly; she spent most days sleeping and still seemed very weak. Her pain never left her and sometimes Sephiroth could hear her whimpering in the night. The hard physical conditions were beginning to break them down, and it was uncertain how much longer they could last.

Sephiroth sipped his tea. It had been made from herbs three times boiled over and hardly tasted like anything. He was waiting for the snow to clear; he could hear it scratching against the side of the container, and it seemed to have almost died down. At least now he wouldn't have to borrow Aerith's goggles; it was about dusk.

"I'll be going out again soon," he said.

Aerith sat up. "I want to come with you."

"You're hardly in the shape for it."

"I know. But I want to go. I've had a few days to rest. I'm tired of being cooped up in here."

He shook his head. "As you wish. Just be careful not overexert yourself."

Snow had drifted over the opening of the container. Sephiroth dug his way out, cutting through the thick outer crust of ice with the knife. They emerged into a dusky, rose-lit world, and at first it was difficult to tell if it was twilight or dawn. The snow had stopped falling, and it was absolutely still. Sephiroth and Aerith went from container to container, studying the writing on the outside of them, to see if he could infer any clue as to what could be inside. They all had a large abstract logo of a ten-pointed star, which he had never seen before, painted in white on their sides.

"Why do you think these are here?" Aerith asked. She walked slowly, her balance a little off.

"Not sure. I don't recognize the markings, but the containers are standard enough. They could have just fallen off an airship in transit." He thumped his hand hard against the corrugated metal side. Rust and paint shivered and flaked off onto the snow. "That's good, it mean we've gotten far enough south to at least be in the path of some shipping lanes. Although these have been out here for a little while."

Aerith nodded. She looked past him at the darkening sky. The stars were just beginning to appear. One burned just above the horizon, dark red.

"Sephiroth? What star is that?" She seemed strangely fixated on it.

"I think it's Alphekka."

"What constellation is it in?"

"Corona Austalis," He paused, then the significance suddenly hit him, "The southern crown. The crown was the last thing you said, when you were recovering."

"Let's follow it." Aerith took a few steps in that direction.

He followed.

They continued due west as the star climbed higher. Night fell around them.

"Now what?" Sephiroth asked. Alphekka was now directly overhead. He shivered. The temperature had dropped by at least 20 degrees. Mercifully, there wasn't any wind.

Aerith scanned the sky. "Look for the other two."

"There's Corvus." Sephiroth said, pointing toward a group of stars that was far off to their right. He caught her quizzical look. "The crow."

They adjusted their course, and continued on for several miles. The snow grew icy and full of sharp black rocks. It was difficult to traverse. The ridge that he had seen from a distance was now looming in front of them, just fifty meters off.

"Should we climb this? Are you feeling strong enough?" Sephiroth twisted back to look at her. His voice seemed unnaturally loud in the depths of the awesome silence.

"I think I can do it."

"What then? There is no constellation called the sickle."

Aerith frowned. "Let's just get to the top. We can try again tomorrow night if we need to."

Gradually, they clambered up the face of the ridge, feeling their way in the dim starlight. It grew brighter as they neared the top. Sephiroth reached it first. He stood and stared out at the incredible vista before him. The ridge fell away steeply on its back side, littered with glittering sheets of broken ice, some as large as a house. It seemed to sawtooth down for endless miles, and no matter how much he strained, he couldn't see the bottom.

"Aerith, look at this." He crouched down and pulled her up beside him.

One long arm of the crescent moon was rising behind the jagged outline of the rocks at the crest of the ridge. It floated upward into the boundless sky as they watched, hauntingly beautiful.

"The sickle," he murmured.

Sephiroth looked further down the steep slope in the direction of the moon, a few hundred meters away. Something was shimmering. At first he thought it was just the moonlight reflecting off the ice, but it was only concentrated in that spot.

"Did you see that down there?" he asked. "The light is strange."

"I think so."

"I'm going to check it out."

Aerith sank to the ground and sat on an icy outcropping. She looked exhausted. "I'll stay here," she said.

Sephiroth began the treacherous descent. The jagged planes of ice left few places to put his feet and were deceptively brittle, breaking out from under him when he put his weight on them. More than once what he thought was a sure footing broke away and left him scrabbling to keep his balance. One wrong move would send him sliding down the mountain, out of control. He moved slowly, a step at a time, testing and retesting. The moon had risen another 20 degrees by the time he began to approach his target.

He was only a few meters away when he saw it, its long blade burning white in the moonlight, the black sharkskin on its grip glittering. It was Masamune, stuck diagonally through a blue slab of ice. Sephiroth stared at it, unbelieving, and a cold shock ran through him. Aerith had known it was here, or something had spoken through her, leading him to this place. He looked directly up, at the wide black sky, opening into forever. He thought of the woman who had led him through the snowfields when he had found Aerith, her eyes full of hate.

The ice under his feet was groaning, starting to crack. Sephiroth shifted his weight, sending shards of broken ice skittering down the slope. He took two calculated steps sideways, closing the distance, and dug into the ice with his heels so he could stand without using his hands to brace. He pulled off his glove and drew Masamune out of its icy prison. The grip was so cold it burned, searing his skin like a brand, but he held it fast as the swords' dark power curled up his arm and buried itself deep into his heart like plant tendrils. Sephiroth swept the blade outward and shook it hard, cutting the air, the blade whooping in exaltation. Satisfied, he drew it up, arcing the blade behind him, and sheathed it across his back. He climbed up to the top of the ridge, comforted in once again feeling the familiar weight of it, that completeness. Aerith was sitting on the ground, her knees drawn up to her chest, her head resting on them. Sephiroth sat down in the snow next to her.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. I'm just resting." She raised her head and looked at him, saw the dark handle of the sword in its harness, and her eyes widened in surprise. "You found Masamune?"

"Yes. But you knew it would be here. Somehow you knew." His voice was colored with uncharacteristic warmth.

"No, not me." Aerith swallowed hard. "I told you, I don't remember saying those things." She put her head back down on her knees, and the last memory of her people flooded her again, as it had been, over and over since she had had it.

They had spoken to her in the last weak burst of the Tears' power, their voices almost drowned out by the din of an unholy gale. Her mother was nowhere to be found, even though she called for her. _Please hurry_, they said, pleading with her. _The Gate has found us, and we cannot hold._ _You must purify yourself, and the Son of the Stars, and come to us. Come soon, it gnaws, and we cannot hold, we cannot hold…._

It wasn't just the words that haunted her; it was the look in their ancient eyes, a look she had never seen in them before; raw helpless terror. It was impossible, what they were asking of her. Save them, and in turn be saved…but she didn't know how, assuming she could even get there in time, or do the right thing. Were they asking her to stand against the Gate? Nothing could stand against it; it existed before time and could never be defeated. Would she even know if she was too late, now that the Tears were gone and there was no way to communicate? Aerith willed away the tears that were stinging at the corners of her eyes and swallowed them down into a hard knot in her chest.

Sephiroth nudged her and she looked over at him. For once she was grateful for the interruption.

"Here. Take this back." He held the ivory handled knife out to her. She buckled it inside her boot, then looked out over the valley. The stars glittered over so much nothingness. There were sharp crags in every direction but behind them.

She sighed, unbuckling her parka flap so it was easier to breathe. "We're so far from home."

"Home? You mean the forgotten capital?"

"That's not what I mean. I'm not sure what I mean, really. Nowhere is home anymore, I guess."

Sephiroth didn't know what to say. She seemed as if she were ruminating on some private unhappiness, her eyes huge and wet. He gazed out into the night. The shoulder of her coat was brushing his; he wondered if she noticed. He looked at her. The moonlight silvered her skin, making it even smoother and whiter. Snow glittered around her and in the white fur of her hood. He had a fleeting thought that she was beautiful. Beautiful, but so sad.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

Sephiroth rose, stamping in the frigid air. "We should go."

Aerith nodded and got up stiffly, brushing the snow off of her legs.

Sephiroth swore he could see her muscles shaking, or maybe it was the cold.

"Are you doing alright?" he asked

"Fine."

They walked back over the snowfields, following in their tracks. The high moon spilled light over their backs, their smooth shadows wavered on the snow like a pair of towering blue flames. Suddenly Aerith stumbled forward and her boots caught on the ice; she seized Sephiroth's forearm and caught herself. She stood and leaned heavily onto him for a moment, blinking hard, her grip tight and desperate. A thin ribbon of anxiety passed through him.

"What happened? Did you black out?"

"Maybe…I'm not sure. I must be just tired," Aerith said, moving slowly. She didn't seem to want to let go; he held his arm away from his body so that she could stand more upright.

"You're pushing yourself too hard."

"I know. But we need to keep moving. I can't be weak." Her eyes narrowed. He saw it in her, her force of will gathering like a storm.

"Here." Sephiroth dug in his parka, in his one remaining pocket, and brought out a small piece of folded cloth. "I still have a few of these. Have one." He unfolded the cloth and showed her what was inside, a handful of small blackish brown cubes that looked grainy.

Aerith undid the flap of her parka and took one. "What is it?"

"It's for energy."

She put it in her mouth and chewed. "It's strange. Kind of stringy."

"I think it's mostly yak fat, tea and sugar. But who knows what else. Baral swore by it." Sephiroth took one, ate it, then put the rest back in his pocket.

"Hmm." Aerith was still chewing.

"Then again, Baral would have sworn by anything if he thought it would make him a profit." Sephiroth smirked with bittersweet amusement, just for a moment. Because most of his face was hidden in the cowl of his parka, Aerith could only see it pass through his eyes, his silver lashes lifting for a fraction of a second, a subtle glitter in their green depths.

"Well, then, thank you, I think," she said. The cube left a strange medicinal taste in her mouth, but it did seem to help her feel better. She released his arm, not realizing she had still been clutching it. "I think I can make it now."

They walked onward for another three quarters of an hour, easy going through soft level snow, until the rectangular black outlines of the shipping containers came into view.

"Let's check the other containers tomorrow, when we have light." Aerith said.

"Agreed," Sephiroth said.

They pulled themselves inside their container. Aerith threw herself into the far corner with her back against the wall, and gathered the folds of the parachute around herself. Sephiroth found the light materia and lit it. He extricated himself from his harness and knelt, laying Masamune beside him. In the corner of the container, Aerith rested with her eyes closed, and seemed disinclined to move. She pulled open the throat of her parka, and irritably flicked the accumulated frost off of the stiff cloth.

Sephiroth looked at her, her lips were pale and she trembled lightly, like a bird. Even with her strong will, she couldn't last much longer, not like this. His eyes flickered over her sharp jawline, but the sight of it pained him and he looked away. Sephiroth pulled off his gloves, and started gathering a small pile of spools together. He unraveled the ends of the thick silvery wire and twisted the spools together, massing them into a tight cylindrical cluster about two feet high and a foot across. His fingers were stiff and numb and he worked slowly, the sharp edges of the wire tearing his skin. He bled without feeling it.

Aerith opened her eyes a sliver and looked at him. "What are you doing?"

"I had an idea, as we were walking."

"What is it?"

"You'll see. If it works." he said, keeping his eyes on what he was doing.

"Well, at least give me a hint."

"This wire is iridium alloy."

"Hmm. How do you know?"

He picked up a spool and showed her the printing stamped into the ceramic, a nearly indecipherable string of subscripted letters.

"Hmm." She sat back against the wall and folded her arms across her chest.

Twenty minutes later he had finished building. "Protect your ears," he said, "It's going to be very loud."

Sleepily, halfheartedly, she put her mittened hands to her head. Sephiroth moved the spool cluster to the center of the container and began to cast. His spell was almost immediate; spidery bolts of blue-white lightning leapt from his fingers and jumped into the wire. The sharp crack of thunder that followed was deafening, it shook the container, making the thick layer of ice that coated the walls shatter and fall to the floor.

Aerith startled wildly, the thunder had been like a physical blow.

She could still hear it echoing out over the mountains, reverberating again and again. Angrily, she shook shards of ice out of her hair and brushed them out of her lap.

"Look," Sephiroth said. It had worked. The cluster of wire was glowing yellow and the container was filled with the smell of hot metal. "It might stay that way for a while, perhaps 10 to12 hours. It should be enough to heat the container. We could be warm. We might even boil some water, if you like."

Aerith's face was illuminated with relief. She pulled off her gloves and stretched her fingers toward the warmth with obvious pleasure.

Sephiroth darkened the light materia, as the softly glowing wire made it bright enough to see, and began to take off his parka. He sat crosslegged and folded it on his lap. A few feathers floated to the floor. "This needs to be repaired again," he said simply. "Will you rest?"

Aerith was staring into the yellow glow of the wire. She had taken off her boots and was warming the soles of her feet.

"I don't know." Her stomach clenched painfully. "I'm so hungry. Do you think we could have something, maybe one of the canned goods?"

"It would probably do us both some good. But we should only have one."

Aerith rose up onto her knees and crept over to her pack. She returned with her arms full of labelless cans, some of them sooty and dented.

"Which of these will it be?"

Sephiroth briefly glanced up from his work. "I have no preference."

The heat had made things much easier. His stinging fingers moved with nimble precision, weaving a trio of threaded needles through the worst of the damage at the hem of his coat.

Aerith chose a large round can. She pierced it with the ivory handled knife, and slowly worked the lid off.

"These look like...peaches?" She sniffed them. "They look ok but smell kind of strange. The juice they're in is fizzy." She held it out for him to examine.

"They've fermented. You can smell the yeasts."

"So we can't eat them?"

"No, they're edible. Just not ideal. Maybe just have a little and see how you react."

Sephiroth put a bowlful of snow on the heater to melt, then continued his sewing.

"Do you want some of these?" Aerith held out the can out to him.

"I'll have some when I'm done."

Aerith took a spoonful. "They're not too bad. Not as good as the milk, but not bad."

She put down the can and the spoon she was eating with."It's getting really warm in here." Aerith took off her parka and wriggled out of her snowpants, leaving her in loose cotton leggings and a sweater. She sighed, leaning back.

"It's so good to be warm."

Sephiroth finished his work and came and sat next to her. Like her, he had shed his outer clothing.

Aerith handed the peach can to him. "Here, I've had enough. I feel kind of strange."

"There's probably a little alcohol in there." He tasted. There most certainly was.

She crawled over to the bedroll and laid down on her side, blinking sleepily.

"I feel so much better."

"Good," Sephiroth said, quickly finishing off the remainder of the peaches. He looked at her warily. "Do you think you'll be strong enough to continue on tomorrow?"

"I think so. But even if not, we have to keep moving." She yawned. The combination of the dim light and food was making her drowsy. "We'll have to travel at night from now on, won't we?"

"Yes. But if it doesn't snow we can just follow our tracks, at least as far as the ridge."

Sephiroth was preoccupied. His coat repaired enough to be serviceable, he turned his attention to Masamune, drawing it out and balancing the flat of the blade across his thighs. Aerith studied him, watching as he touched the blade gently, reverently, as one would caress the cheek of a dying mother.

"Where did you get Masamune?"

"It's a long story."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Ok." Sephiroth pursed his lips. He took a deep breath.

It was with great pleasure that he had tossed the broken sword, with all sixteen pieces of its shattered blade, right in the middle of Hojo's desk. His pleasure increased further as Hojo looked up at him with narrowed eyes, flustered and angry at the intrusion, soot and powdered metal streaking his reports. "These ShinRa blades are hardly worth the steel they're made with, Hojo. I've told you before, I'm tired of having to work with such inferior tools."

Hojo's eyes flashed. Scowling, he brushed particles of metal from the front of his coat. "Why bring it to me? Just requisition a new one. If it troubles you so much, have something imported." He mashed the button on his intercom and called for his assistant.

"The imported blades are almost as brittle as these; the best we can get are mass produced goods for export. The best swordsmiths refuse to sell as soon as they learn ShinRa's involved."

Hojo rubbed the throbbing blue vein at the side of his head. "So what do you want?"

"I want leave, to deal with them directly."

Hojo's mouth twisted in a half-sneer. He was considering it.

"Think of what I could do if I had something appropriate to work with…an instrument worthy of my skill," Sephiroth added.

Hojo's eyes snapped back down to his papers. He shoved the broken remains of the sword off the side of his desk, picked up his pen and resumed writing.

"How long do you need?"

"A month, perhaps more. Until I find what I'm looking for."

"Can the President spare you?"

"Yes."

Hojo looked up, his watery eyes boring into him. "One month. Longer and we will collect you."

Internally, Sephiroth scoffed. _Let them try_. "Certainly," he said, taking his leave.


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

The deerpath went on and on, threading its way up into the rocky mountains of the Mideel Archipelago. Long silky grass swept his feet and dandled the hem of his coat, streaking it with dew. The purple twilight was sweeping in, darkening the stand of pines that loomed in the mist above him. As the light faded, he sought their shelter to rest, settling on a thick bed of needles at the base of an ancient knarled tree. The soft drizzle did not reach him, and he sat with his back against the trunk of the tree and brushed away the moisture from his shoulders. It was a late spring night, and warm, so he did not light a fire, but sat and let the darkness fall around him. He heard a hoopoe calling in the woods behind him, an eerie counterpoint to the sawing crickets. The new moon darkness was absolute, save for the flicker of fireflies in the long grass. He should sleep, he knew, but didn't feel like sleeping. They would attempt to collect him soon; Hojo was not a patient man and already he had overstayed his allotted time, without finding what he was looking for. For the last month Sephiroth had crossed the continents, relying mostly on rumors and legends as he sought the last of the great craftsmen, nearly extinct now, in the age of machines. He ate some tasteless hardtack as he considered the results of his unfruitful labor. Two of the swordsmiths he had gone to see had been long dead and their wares sold, hidden by their heirs, or were in possession of the local dictator. One had had a reputation that well outshone his skill, and the others had been equally disappointing, being only second rate students of the long dead master. He had two, maybe three days at most, he estimated, to find the smith that was reported to be working somewhere in the mountains of this island, before Hojo would send in his goons.

"Weren't you afraid?" Aerith asked. Her exhaustion seemed to have vanished and she listened with avid attention, leaning forward with her head on her hands. It was so rare that he spoke at all. His voice was deep and resonant; she took his words deep into herself where they smouldered like incense. His descriptions of his story was spare, but months in the barren landscape enlarged her imagining of it until she could almost physically feel the dewy warmth of the night air, smell the soft pine needles beneath her, and hear the thrumming of the insects in the moonless night.

"No. Not afraid. I had been collected before," Sephiroth said. "It was always…unpleasant. Especially if I didn't come along quietly." he added. He pursed his lips, wondering how many lives he had wasted in the desperate futile defense of his freedom. "If failed to find what I was looking for, I didn't know if I would be given another chance. That concerned me." Hojo had already been unusually indulgent, as he could be from time to time, but his generosity never repeated itself.

It had taken two days to find the swordsmith. Sephiroth described his route as he climbed upward; the pines grew thicker, the terrain rockier, mist covering everything in a mysterious gray shroud. On the afternoon of the second day he came across the twisting silver thread of a stream and followed it. It snarled deep in the black rocks, before opening into a shallow pool, fed by a waterfall as fine as a bridal veil. Squatting at the edge of the pool was an old man, a basket of faded blue and white cloth at his side. He was doing his washing. The man heard him coming and sat back on his heels to look him, his wizen eyes blinking. He wrung out the cloth he had been scrubbing against the rocks and nodded at him. Sephiroth nodded back.

"Are you Iwazu the Swordsmith?" Sephiroth asked, approaching cautiously. The old man had not gone back to his washing, but continued to stare at him, his wet hands on his thighs. He rubbed at the bandana on his forehead with the back of his arm, pushing it up further on his nearly hairless scalp. Sephiroth couldn't tell if the old man's lack of response meant he didn't understand, and he asked again, trying this time a variation on the Mideelian dialect.

"I heard you." The old man said, his voice as weathered as his face. He rose from his haunches and dropped the clothes he had been washing back into the basket. His hands were a masterpiece of muscle and sinew; Sephiroth guessed his grip was unspeakably strong. "Who are you?"

"A patron." Experience had taught him never to mention Shinra, or his association with the military, if he could help it. "I'm looking to commission Iwazu for a blade, one worthy of me."

Still the old man stared at him. Sephiroth guessed he was wondering at the color of his hair, or his eyes. It happened often in remote areas.

"Where do you come from?" the man asked, looking up at him.

"Midgard." He was growing impatient. "I travelled many, many miles to reach here. Are you Iwazu, or do you know where he is?"

The man dropped his eyes. "I am he. Or I should say I was." He turned away and walked back to the shore of the pool. "I am no longer the man you are looking for," he said as he walked away. The old swordsmith squatted down and pulled out another piece of clothing to wash. He called to Sephiroth over his shoulder. "It is a shame I cannot help you. But the least I can do is invite you to my home, since you have come from such a long way."

Sephiroth looked at Iwazu's back as he dipped his clothes in the frigid water, once, twice, then began to scrub them against a broad flat rock. Perhaps Iwazu was only testing him, perhaps he was lying; obviously there was much he wasn't saying. He couldn't threaten his way; he got the sense that Iwazu had been alone for a long time and was unafraid of death. No, he would bide his time, as long as he could, and, at best, persuade him to give up whatever secrets he had.

Iwazu's house was made of cedar, heavily thatched with the same grass Sephiroth had waded through just a few days before. It nestled into the side of the mountain against a jagged rock wall, surrounded by tall, ruddy pines. A long haired nanny goat browsed under one of them, bound to the trunk with a twisted jute rope. About twenty paces away, half hidden through the misty pines, a shadowy building made of stone squatted under a leaning zelkova tree. A crumbling chimney jutted from the top of the building; its roof was covered with leaves and shed branches, and the area around it was overgrown with grass and bracken. Sephiroth had no time to investigate, as the old man was ushering him into the house, leading him through a low threshold. The floor was burnished earth, with a grass rug and a few pieces of wooden furniture, a table and two chairs, that seemed to grow up out of the ground. The old man put the basket of wet clothes on the ground and disappeared outside. Sephiroth made himself comfortable near the fire. The constant drizzle had soaked him to the skin. Iwazu reappeared a few minutes later, with a bucket. He put the bucket down on the table and rummaged in a corner stacked with earthenware, returning with a shallow dish of chipped celadon. He poured the contents of the bucket into the dish and handed it to Sephiroth with both hands, bowing slightly as he did so.

"Milk." Iwazu said simply. Sephiroth drank while his host busied himself making food; rice, and some sort of thick yellow stew. Iwazu kept looking at him, stealing glances at his eyes, his hair, the sword on his back.

"How long have you lived in this place?" Sephiroth asked.

"Many years. Most of my life."

"Have you always lived alone?"

"I lived with my wife. She died four years ago. I had a few students, when I was still working."

Sephiroth glanced at the double bed in the corner of the room, its vermillion paint peeling.

The stew Iwazu had prepared was bubbling. They ate in silence. After dinner, after eyeing the hilt of Sephiroth's sword for the hundredth time, Iwazu asked if he could see it. Sephiroth drew it out and put it on the table.

Iwazu picked it up by the grip, wrinkling up his nose.

"Cheap fish skin, dyed to look like ray." he said, opening his hand and pointing at the textured leather on the grip. He held the sword and tilted it gently right and left. "Hmm, bad balance. It favors the left." He held the blade up to his ear and flicked it with his fingernail in several places, listening. "Too much martensite in the steel. Makes it brittle. Martensite all the way up to here, through the whole thickness." Iwazu indicated the back of the blade with his scarred knuckle. "Makes it very stiff." He looked at the sword again, and his brow furrowed. "There's no soul in this weapon. You fight with this?"

Sephiroth couldn't tell if he was surprised or horrified. Perhaps both. "I do," he replied flatly.

There was a glittering eagerness in his eyes. "Will you show me?"

The old man got up and took down a slim elmwood pole from the wall. Sephiroth suspected he used it to herd his goat. "I will use this," Iwazu said.

"It's not a fair fight." Sephiroth said.

Iwazu shrugged. "Show me what you can do."

They went outside, in the tamped area between buildings. The drizzle had stopped.

Iwazu removed his heavy outer robe. Underneath he wore a lighter white robe decorated with an embroidered honeycomb design, white on white, and Sephiroth had the fleeting thought that his wife had probably made it for him. Iwazu walked six large paces away, then turned to face him, holding out the elm rod in readiness. His stance was unconventional, almost nonchalant, but there was a lively hunger in his dark eyes. Sephiroth focused, and held out his sword. The old man was faster on his feet than he anticipated, and he only narrowly sidestepped his initial strike, which had been aimed at his flank. He was not caught off guard again and neatly delivered a smart strike to Iwazu's kidneys and the back of his arm with the flat of his blade. Iwazu changed strategies from offensive to defensive, striking with maximal force at every parry, making Sephiroths' blade shiver. After deflecting a narrow miss that took a long shaving off the side of the elm rod, Iwazu struck the side of Sephiroth's blade squarely, right on edge. Sephiroth stepped forward, into the strike. He felt the blade catch in the wood, flex slightly, then stiffen. He backed off slightly, to give the brittle metal some room to compensate, but it was too late. The sword snapped off at the tip, taking a long piece of the back of the blade with it.

Iwazu chuckled twice, wheezily, but then his face darkened. "It has been a long time that I have had some honest competition. You fight well. Better than this sword is worth." He frowned, and shook his head slowly. "I will repair it, make it a little better. But it will still not be what it needs to be to be right for you." The side of his mouth twitched. He was hiding something, perhaps only a painful memory.

Sephiroth awoke the next morning to the sound of Iwazu lighting the hearth. He got up and sat next to the fire and watched as Iwazu took two spotted eggs from his pocket and cracked them into a pan, scrambling them lightly with a long tined fork.

"I will need you to chop a lot of wood today." Iwazu said. "There are some good pines on the eastern slope, not far."

Iwazu served up the eggs. "I will prepare the forge." He took a deep breath. "It has been dormant for many years." His gaze was far away, and he looked back and forth, as if he were arguing with himself in his mind. "When we have enough wood, we can begin."

It took most of the morning to cut and gather enough wood to do the job. Sephiroth felled a dry, dead pine and dragged it to the little yard between the buildings, splitting and stacking it along the slouching side of the forge. Iwazu worked at scything away the weeds and pulling down the accumulated vines and creepers. When Sephiroth returned with the last load he found the old man standing in front of the door to the forge, motionless.

"I promised my wife I would never make another sword," he said. "She was afraid my grief would curse my work, and bring sorrow and loss to the ones who owned the blades. I don't think she knew I would last this long." He swallowed. "All things pass, with time." He looked down at the pieces of Sephiroth's broken sword in his hands. "I'm glad you've come."

Sephiroth had said nothing. It was only now, in retelling the story, that he realized how lonely Iwazu had been, and how much joy it had given him, to work again.

Iwazu stepped forward and slid open the door to his forge.

The inside was dark, swaddled in dust. A flurry of sparrows, disturbed by the sudden movement, burst out of the open door and up into the sky. Iwazu walked inside, stepping uncertainly in the dim light. Tools were neatly hung in rows on the walls and arrayed on a wide bench lining the side of the wall. Save for all the dust, it looked as if he had simply set them down and walked away the day before.

Deep troughs for tempering water and clay were dug in the earth floor, and an iron anvil stood in the center of the room. Iwazu went over to the anvil, rubbing away the thin film of orange corrosion on its surface like a man might scratch his favorite dog. He ambled over to the woodbox of the forge, opened it, and peered inside.

"First," he said, "we need fire."

They stoked the forge, and soon the building was shimmering with heat. Iwazu stripped off his robes, working bare-chested in long loose pants rolled up to the knee, a scarred leather apron, and rawhide gloves. His nut brown skin shone with sweat as he heated, reheated and hammered the metal to thickness.

"This steel," he said, shaking his head, "is very porous, very impure. But I'll do what I can." The work was hard, but it was obvious he enjoyed it. By the time the sun was dropping behind the western side of the mountain, the sword, now whole, was buried in the tempering pit, cooling slowly with wet clay packed along the back of the blade.

"Cooling the back slowly leaves it more flexible," Iwazu explained. "Tomorrow we'll put an edge on it."

They walked back up toward the house and stopped in front of the rain barrel that was parked under the corner of the eave. Iwazu tossed a few dipperfuls of water over his head and rubbed his face enthusiastically.

"Do you still possess any of the blades you've made?" Sephiroth asked.

"Most of them have gone to the patrons who commissioned them. I only have two. One is the first I made for my son, when he was a child." A shadow of sadness passed across his face. "The other…it might be my finest work. But no one must ever possess it."

"Why not?"

Iwazu shivered, paling slightly. "It is a hungry sword, full of desire. As I was smithing it I felt as if some other force was working through my hands, driving me to bring it into being. I am frightened of it now. I don't know what would happen if it were unleashed upon the world." He looked deep into Sephiroth's eyes. "But, I can see you have a good soul. I will show it to you."

_Oh, old man, how wrong you are_, Sephiroth thought, but only nodded.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

"He said that I had a good soul." Sephiroth looked deep into Aerith's eyes, searching for her reaction. She was sitting up, twisting a thick ringlet of her hair in her fingers. She paused for a moment, her gaze sliding away from him, down and away. Perhaps she no longer had the energy for contempt. It was pity that was registering now, in the sad curve of her mouth. For the old man, surely.

"He was only seeing what he wanted to see," Sephiroth continued.

"His own reflection," Aerith murmured. She didn't sound completely convinced. She was quiet for a moment. "So what happened, then?"

Stooping painfully, his knees popping, Iwazu crouched down and swept the ashes out of the hearth, revealing an iron ring set into the flat stones.

"The fire would guard it," explained Iwazu as he pulled up the heavy stone, "keep its influence in check." Sephiroth helped him pull up the rest, opening a diagonal cavity that stretched across the entire width of the hearth.

Iwazu peered down. "I buried it as deep as I could. There's a wooden compartment about half a meter down. The case is inside that."

Sephiroth reached into the darkness. The stones of the hearth had still been hot from the fire, but the space beneath was ice cold. He felt another metal ring, attached to the lid of the compartment, and pulled it up out of the way. The vaguely sweet dead-summer scent of timothy grass floated up from the pit. Sephiroth felt his heart begin to beat faster, although he didn't know why. He knelt and pulled the sword case from its nest of dry grass and set it on the floor. It was heavier than he thought, wrapped in a faded blue and red ikat tied with fraying silk cords.

The old man's eyes were glittering as he undid the wrapping to reveal a case of jet black lacquer, decorated with a stripe of gold and mother of pearl inlay depicting flowing water. He ran his gnarled hand over it, following the sweep of the design, then let it rest on top of the case like a crumpled brown leaf..

"Everything is impermanent, beginning and returning to this." The old man looked at him. "the Lifestream endlessly flows and cycles within us and all things."

Sephiroth looked back at him stonily. Iwazu wasn't speaking to him, not really, but to his son, the ghost long gone.

"There is a hardness within you, I am afraid. Your heart is frozen. You must learn to flow and be supple, like the Lifestream, if you will be all that you are meant to be."

Iwazu sat back and took his hand off of the case. Sephiroth hadn't been listening then, had barely heard his words, but he remembered them now. As he related them to Aerith, repeating them aloud in his own voice, it was like hearing it for the first time.

"As soon as I touched the case," he told her, "I knew Masamune was mine."

"How did you know?"

"I could feel it. It told me so."

Aerith shivered. Its voice had no words; it put dark fire into her mind, filled her belly with its own desperate hunger. She had no idea how he could stand it. "What did you do then?" she asked.

"Iwazu opened the case, then quickly put Masamune away. I think it frightened him." Sephiroth thought back. Things soon became tense between them. Iwazu became silent and withdrawn, and seemed to regard him with suspicion. Could he somehow perceive it, the connection Masamune had made with him?

"Perhaps he thought I was going to kill him for the sword."

Aerith raised an eyebrow, slightly.

"Did you?"

Sephiroth shook his head.

"It was above my honor, to cut him down like a common thief. I honestly believed that he would change his mind. Masamune had promised itself to me. It wouldn't lie. So I waited." Sephiroth thought back to the week after he had seen the sword. Every night he had woken up from gorgeous, impossible, dreams. The days ran together. Iwazu was always up and gone long before dawn, returning with wild birds eggs, a pocketful of nuts, or sometimes a rabbit. He disappeared again just before twilight, and returned just after dark, this time going and returning emptyhanded. Sephiroth kept himself busy; he split wood, carried water, rebuilt part of a rock wall, put an edge on his reforged sword, and pretended his days with Iwazu weren't numbered.

One night, overcome with curiosity, he followed Iwazu on one of his evening treks. It had just finished raining, and the ground steamed with humidity in the early summer heat. Sephiroth watched him wind through a steep tumble of rocks and disappear into a thick stand of pines. Once in the pines, the path was well worn in the soft sandy earth and Sephiroth followed it easily. Iwazu had stopped in front of a pair of stone lanterns, one tall, one short. Sephiroth crouched in the deep roots of an ancient pine and watched him as he took a short bottle out of his pocket and used it to fill a vessel inside the lanterns. He heard Iwazu saying something as he lit the lamps, but he was too far away to hear what it was. The old man sat on the thick moss that grew in front of the lanterns, still talking, almost as if he were having a conversation with the stones. At last, when Iwazu rose up on his knees and embraced them, one after the other, Sephiroth turned away.

"They were the graves of his wife and son."

"He must have loved them very much."Aerith said.

"Yes."

"Did he ever tell you about them?"

"No. I left soon afterwards." He closed his eyes for a moment; it was painful to remember.

"You decided to go?"

"ShinRa decided for me."

His hair had still been wet; he had just finished bathing at the spring. The sun warmed him, and felt good on his shoulders as he made his way back through the forest. As he approached the house he heard the goat bleating plaintively over and over. He soon saw the reason why: a small battalion of elite ShinRa soldiers were standing in the tamped earth before the threshold to the house. They trained their weapons on him with deadly earnesty. He raised a hand to them to show he would come quietly. They stepped back. Iwazu was sprawled face down in the dirt with his elm staff in one hand and his milking bucket in the other, half a dozen bullets in his back. Sephiroth came closer and stood over his body. He was dead. A fly, fat and iridescent, landed in the blood staining his blue and white robes. The goat stamped and pulled at her rope, anxious to be milked.

"Who did this?" he demanded, raising his voice. He spun around, searching faces. "Who?" The battalion leader stepped forward; Sephiroth struck him across the face once, twice, with the back of his hand. The soldier fell back, choking, blood burbling from his mouth. He had probably broken his jaw, but he didn't care.

"If any of you value your lives, I suggest you leave this place."

Gunfire answered him. He had to get to the house, to the space beneath the hearth. A single leap, it seemed, and he was there. Sephiroth kicked the door closed behind him and barricaded it with the table. A high fire was still burning in the grate; he shoved the blazing timber aside with his bare hands, oblivious to the pain. Coals scattered across the floor, landing on the grass rug and beginning to smoulder. Sephiroth dug, singleminded. He could feel Masamune calling to him up through the earth, its voice an almost physical pleasure that rippled through him, thrumming in his bones. When the sword was in his hands at last, a long silver arc of elegant destruction, he knew what he had to do, what it demanded of him. Coming quietly was no longer an option. He picked off the remaining soldiers one by one, as leisurely as a man walking through a park plucks flowers. Masamune was light and flexible, allowing him to move in new, almost effortless ways. He could be fast, much faster than before, the perfectly balanced and tempered blade working in concert with his body instead against it.

When he was done he crouched down next to Iwazu's body and rolled him over. The old swordsmiths face was purple from pooling blood, his eyes open. The bright June sky was reflected in them, blue and endless. Sephiroth brushed the sandy dirt from Iwazu's face and closed his staring eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said. He untangled the handle of the bucket from Iwazu's stiff fingers and laid him back on the ground. The goat struggled against its ropes, bleating madly. He milked it then cut its halter, sending it off into the hills with a slap. Behind him, smoke was pouring through the open door of the house and orange flames were licking around the edges of the roof. He could feel the heat on his back, through the thick leather of his coat. It would burn to the ground and he would let it. He poured the contents of the bucket out onto the ground. He looked around at the dead bodies of the soldiers. Hojo would be unhappy with the losses, but only for a little while.

"I buried Iwazu next to his wife." He studied Aerith's face; she seemed trying hard to stomach what she had just heard. "Are you surprised?"

"No," she said, but her face said that she was.

"I wasn't always a total monster."

She was quiet for a while, combing through her hair with her hands, her eyes far away.

"It was not how I wanted it to be," Sephiroth said, his voice heavy with regret. It was genuine regret; something he had not been able to feel at the time. "I would have liked Iwazu to have given Masamune to me of his own free will. I only was given the chance to avenge his death. It was all I could do. I wish it could have been different. If I had had only a few more days, it might have been."

Aerith sighed. Her stomach growled painfully but she knew there was nothing more to be done for it.

"Sometimes we just do the best we can. Some things are bigger than us." She drew in a shaky breath. How true that was. She thought once again of her mother, of her people, fighting a battle they could not win. Maybe they had already been annihilated, devoured by the Gate. She would never know. She felt her lower lip begin to tremble, her throat clenching. _Stop it_, she said to herself, _just stop it._ Crying did no good, all it did was exhaust her; she needed to distract herself from her despair, the feeling that death was closing in all around her.

"Do you have any happy memories?" she asked, hoping he couldn't detect the tremor in her voice. He had no idea how desperate she was to hear something, anything, to take her mind away from the gnawing hopelessness she felt inside.

"Some of us aren't made for happiness. But I'm sure I have one or two." Immediately he thought of when he was a child, of playing in the bright lights of the Vivarium. He loved the mice the best, the white ones with the jewel-red eyes. They were fragile, nervous creatures, and he always got the sense that they needed him to protect them, from everything. He loved the way they explored his hands, the light trembling of their whiskers, as fine as spider's webs, the scratch of their tiny claws. Sometimes, when no one was looking, he would whisper them the secrets he couldn't tell Jani, and they always listened. But no, he couldn't tell Aerith that; such childish pleasures were hardly fit for a grown man to talk about. He thought harder, discarding stories of military conquests and slain beasts until he came to something he had not thought about in a very long time.

"I saw a unicorn, once." Sephiroth said. It was not a happy memory, truly. Happy seemed like much too pithy a word to describe it.

Aerith was wide eyed. "They still exist? I thought they had all disappeared, hundreds of years ago."

"No, they still exist." At the fringe, at the edges, but always there. Like so many things, he thought.

"Where were you? I heard they used to be seen deep in the Ancient Forests in the south or in very remote areas."

"I was in a wheat field on the outskirts of Kalm."

"There? You're kidding."

"I don't."

"How did it happen?"

"I was leading a small platoon. We had camped on the edge of town, just stopping for the night on our way to somewhere else. I don't remember where. It's not important."

It had been early autumn but the night was as warm and soft as bathwater. The leaves were just beginning to drift off the trees and crickets still chirped in the grass. Restless and unable to sleep, he had left the camp in the middle of the night and walked off on his own, not knowing or caring where he was going. The road he was following opened onto a field of wheat; he had waded out into it, feeling the ripe sheaves brush against him as he moved. A soft sighing wind came up from the valley and the wheat flowed around him like water, rustling.

He had stopped in the center of the field and looked up into the night sky. The moon was huge that night, close enough to drag your hand across, close enough to drink its milky light like water. Then the wind had rose again, kissing his skin, and the sound of the endless wheat rose with it. He felt strange, like the time around him had suddenly popped out of joint, and was going much slower than the time everywhere else. Then he saw it, burning as whitely as the moon, at the edge of the field. Lithe as a deer, as graceful as an ocean wave, the unicorn took two steps through the wheat, then stopped, turning its long tasseled ears to listen. It looked up at the moon, stretching its supple neck, then looked right at him. The holiness of its gaze froze him to the ground.

For a second he was afraid to breathe, that the moment would end. As he gazed at the incredible beast, its slender horn ablaze, an incredible feeling leapt inside him, filling his throat with joy and pain. With sudden awareness he felt the earth beneath his feet, solid and reassuring. He felt his heart throb dully in his chest, keeping its own time. He was alive. It was as if he had spent every second of his life up to that moment in a state of suspended animation, blind and deaf to everything around him, within him. Silently, the unicorn slipped away, leaving no trace that it had ever been.

He had sunk down into the musky wheat, crushing the brittle stems in between his fingers, overwhelmed by this new experience of being. He lay there for hours, it seemed, transfixed. The awareness died in him so slowly he barely felt it go. By the time the moon had passed behind the mountains, it was over.

Sephiroth shivered, trying to recall everything he had experienced that night. It was hard to put words to what he had felt, but what did it matter? The gift of his awareness had been short lived, a bauble he took out and looked at from time to time like a relic from a long dead relative. He wasn't sure what it meant, why an experience like that had been given to him. Perhaps it had just been random happenstance. He glanced at Aerith. The immediacy in her eyes frightened him. Why had he told her so much, things he had never shared with anyone?

"That was so beautiful," Aerith said, "Thank you, for all of it." For a little while she had forgotten her hunger and pain, had forgotten the desperate situation they were in. Aerith wrestled within herself, unsure of how to express her gratitude. She watched as Sephiroth shifted Masamune off of his lap and stretched out his long legs, folding his arms across his chest. He had turned inward again, his eyes verdant with thought.

"You should rest now," he said, "We leave tomorrow."

Aerith sank back into the bedroll. "Yes," she sighed, hugging her cramping stomach,"You're right."

When they awoke, they could hear the shushing of snow against the outer walls of the container.

"I think we missed our chance." Sephiroth said, struggling back through the narrow opening of the container, after a few minutes outside. "The snow is falling too hard to see anything."

"What should we do?"

"Wait. Keep checking to see if conditions improve."

They sat together, for twelve hours in the dim light of the light materia, waiting for the storm to end.

"It's only getting worse." Aerith said, her voice muffled through her scarf. The wind had increased exponentially, the blowing snow made it impossible to travel more than a few steps from the container before becoming completely disoriented. She scraped snow off of her parka. Sephiroth sat in silence, curled up in the corner of the container, resting on the bundle he would carry. Until they began their travelling he had decided he would forgo his rations. He did everything he could to conserve his energy.

"Let's sleep for a few hours, then try again later," he said, and put his head back down on his arms.

Aerith sat next to him. "It's so cold without the heater."

"I know."

"Can I lean on you?"

Sephiroth paused for a fraction of a second before answering. "If you wish." He tried not to notice as she laid her head against his shoulder and leaned into him with the entire length of her body. He could never get used to her, no matter how many times she was next to him.

"How long do you think the storm will last?," she asked.

"Difficult to tell. It could be days. It could be over in an hour. Just try to stay as still and warm as you can."

Aerith pulled her hood down over her eyes and tried to sleep. It seemed like endless hours she sat in the frigid dark, breathing and rebreathing the same warm moist air behind her scarf. Eventually she slept, drifting in and out of dreams where she was falling, sliding down into a deep dark pit.

There was a tremendous clang of metal against metal; Aerith snapped awake just in time to feel the walls of the container rotate around her. A wave of spools poured down on top of her, pinning her down, crushing her lungs so that she couldn't breathe. She heard Sephiroth shout, sliding away from her. Something struck her hard on her temple, and then all was still.


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

With hundreds of hard ceramic spools pelting his head and arms, the aggregating weight of them threatening to take him under, Sephiroth braced himself against the wall of the container. Aerith had been knocked out. Her limp body was beginning to disappear under the rapidly shifting load. Sephiroth shouted for her, and grabbed her by the hood of her parka, pulling her free just as the entire volume of spools rushed in, filling that side of the container to the ceiling. Everything was shaking, the air vibrating with the scream of machinery working at maximum capacity. Sephiroth put his hands over his ears, trying to blot out the incredible noise. His skull was thrumming with the machinery, and felt as if it would burst at any moment. The entire container swung wildly back and forth, snow pouring in through the crimp in the door, now pointing up at the blank white sky.

Sephiroth stood over Aerith, protecting her from the flying debris with his body, and cast a healing spell. She stirred, her eyelids fluttering. She tried to rise, her hands immediately going to her temple, which was still dribbling blood onto the shoulder of her parka. Squinting with pain, she covered her ears, struggling to get to her feet on top of the shifting spools. The container pitched and she was thrown forward into the wall. She caught herself with her hands and clung to the corrugations in the walls for dear life. A fresh jolt flung them loose and dropped them both to their knees. Aerith cowered face down on the mountain of spools with her arms over her head, covering her ears. Sephiroth tried to pull her up, but she refused to move. What seemed like hours later, there was an enormous concussion that threw them up hard against the ceiling. Then the noise of machinery wound down and seemed to move away. The container was still, except for a slight underlying vibration. For the moment, they could breathe.

Sephiroth sat up and shook the spools off his back, Aerith did the same. She took her hands off of her ringing ears.

"What's happening?" she said. The noise of the machinery was farther away now, but she still had to raise her voice to speak. She touched the side of her face lightly, over the swollen blue and purple bruise there. She cast a healing spell, and it faded.

Sephiroth dragged himself to the crimp in the door and looked out. The air was warmer and smelled of dust, old wood, and machine oil. The angle of view was limited but he could just make out the grey steel beams of a high arced ceiling with an industrial track fitted into it. A single caged bulb burned dimly in the gloom.

The mechanical noise was increasing. Sephiroth crawled back to Aerith. She was curled up against the wall, still holding her head.

"Are you ok?"

She unfolded herself enough to look at him. "My head still hurts. Spells aren't helping."

"You're probably dehydrated." He reflexively reached for his bedroll before realizing that he had taken it off and it was now buried somewhere in the heap of spools, along with Aerith's pack.

"Here." He called forth a small amount of water from his materia. Lacking kit or any vessel to hold it in, he cupped it in his hands and offered it to her. She hesitated, then drank deeply, closing her eyes.

"Do you want more?"

"No, I've had enough for now." She wiped her mouth and leaned back. "Did you see anything out there?"

Sephiroth finished drinking the water he had called for himself. He tried not to think about how soft her mouth was, as it had pressed against his fingers.

"I think we're in the hold of an airship," he said. "But I can't tell if it's military or civilian."

The sound of screaming machinery grew louder and louder until it seemed to be coming from directly overhead. Aerith held her ears. There was a sudden clash of metal; the container jolted from a heavy impact. They were thrown into darkness as something slammed down over the gap in the door, sealing them in. The machinery restarted its cycle.

"They're stacking the containers," Sephiroth said, as soon as the noise died down. "It could be a salvage and recovery operation."

Aerith blinked in the darkness, looking at the slender threads of light visible in the gaps between the container doors. Wherever they were heading, it had to be somewhere near habitation. Hope rose in her chest like a warm, glowing balloon. Please, please let it be real, she prayed to herself, to anyone that was listening. She sat and waited as the noise of the machines rose and fell. At last they wound down, leaving only a baseline hum and a slight vibration.

"We're under way," Sephiroth said. "We should stay here until we've landed and they've unloaded the cargo. We still don't know what exactly who or what we're dealing with."

Aerith nodded. Her headache had subsided somewhat. Sephiroth began to dig through the pile of spools for their packs. Aerith joined him. They worked mostly by feel, hardly speaking. At last Sephiroth felt the soft edge of the rolled up parachute, and pulled it free. Aerith's pack was buried just below. She unrolled her bedroll and spread it out on top of the spools in preparation for the long wait. Her stomach gnawed at her.

"Could we eat? I mean, there's no point in rationing our food now, is there?"

"Right." Sephiroth unpacked the little that remained, two small cans and a twist of dried meat.

"That's all?"

Sephiroth's curt nod told her how close they had come to total starvation. Aerith opened the cans. They were full of chickpeas suspended in a murky liquid. They were sticky, glutinous, and completely tasteless, but it felt good to have something to stop the wringing emptiness in her gut. Sephiroth and her finished the chickpeas then divided the dried meat between them. It was as tough and fibrous as jute rope.

"Are you sure this edible?" she asked, still chewing.

"It is."

"Not exactly gourmet fare." She swallowed the bit she was working on, just to be rid of it. It scraped all the way down and left behind an oily aftertaste faintly reminiscent of animal hair.

"No, hardly. But better than some Soldier rations, I assure you." He blinked twice, remembering some of the more colorful names his men had called them. He smirked. They had been quite creative.

"It might be a long trip. You should rest if you can. Unless you'd like more of this?" he held out another bite of dried meat.

"No, thank you." She shifted away and settled into her bedroll, staring up at the ceiling. She wiggled her frostbitten toes in the hard shell of her boots, trying to restore some circulation to them. They stung painfully, burning at every movement. So close, to the end of all of this, she hoped. She wasn't sure how much more she could bear. She felt her heart beating faintly in her chest, fluttering like a dying butterfly. Her limbs felt trembly and weak and she tried to call another healing spell but wasn't strong enough to call it forth. She labored for a moment or two but the effort made her nauseous, bright spots appearing in her vision and she quickly abandoned it. It had been happening more and more lately, her ability to call spells gradually weakening, but what it meant she didn't want to think about. Aerith turned onto her belly and swept the bedroll into her arms, crushing her face into the soft cloth, smelling snow. Curling into a ball, she thought of warm rooms, baking bread, a half remembered shopkeeper's smile…

There was a deep velvety voice speaking in her ear. It was calling her name. Aerith opened her eyes. Sephiroth was leaning over her, his silver hair backlit by the cold glow of the light materia.

"Aerith. We've landed. They'll move the containers soon. Be ready."

They waited in the dark, listening. The machinery started up, gathering power. The containers around them were moved, one by one. The crane approached, screaming above them. Something clanged and scraped against the walls then locked into place.

"Brace yourself." Sephiroth said.

There was sudden tension around them as the container began to rise, the metal groaning under its own weight. Aerith lodged herself into a corner as the floor shivered and rocked, spools dancing in every direction. Sephiroth, holding himself steady with his arms, stared at the crevice in the door, watching as the dim ceiling of the airship fell away to reveal a starry night sky. Cold air from outside crept in, tightening his chest as he breathed it in. He heard men shouting somewhere below him, their voices barely discernable. Gradually, they were lowered to earth. The crane released its jaws with a crash. The crane cables fed back up into the belly of the airship, clacking loudly.

Aerith picked herself up. "When can we-"

"Shhh." Sephiroth froze and motioned for her to be silent. A second later they heard men's voices pass by, speaking loudly in a harsh language Aerith did not understand. She could hear their boots crunching on the snow outside and caught a whiff of skunky tobacco. They talked for what seemed like an eternity. Aerith held her breath, afraid to make a sound. Eventually they moved off. Sephiroth sidled up to her. He whispered in her ear, keeping his voice low.

"They're Nordkaatlanders. At least that's what they're speaking."

"What does that mean?" She blinked sleepily in the dark.

"We're close to the arctic circle, somewhere in the borderlands." There were several groups that claimed the area as their own, endlessly fighting over the same mountain range surrounded by ice-locked, desolate land. There were several Nordkaat paramilitary and terrorist groups that had been on ShinRa's watch list; they had the reputation for generally being more organized and well funded than most. One of the largest and most ruthless among them, the NKK, had shot down a group of ShinRa helicopters on a transport mission; the cargo and the crew were never recovered. The diplomat who had also been on board was delivered back to his family, in pieces.

Sephiroth listened further for noises outside, then picked up Masamune and settled it in its harness. "I'm going to figure out who we're dealing with. Be as quiet as you can and wait for me. I shouldn't be gone long."

Aerith nodded. Sephiroth moved away from her and leaned up against the outer doors. He closed his eyes for a moment, shifting all his focus to his ears. Hearing nothing but the gentle undulation of the wind, he reached overhead, gripped the bent edges of the container door and pulled himself outside. He wasted no time in dropping to the ground, ducking between containers to conceal himself while he got his bearings. The containers seemed to be arranged at the edge of some kind of scrapyard, sharing space with heaps of rusted cable, blasted out vehicles and the blackened carapace of a large military helicopter. Instinctively, Sephiroth checked to see if there was a ShinRa insignia on its tailfin, but it was too dark to tell. The airship was docked about a thousand yards away, lit by towering amber floodlights. Picking his way carefully within the footprints of the other men so as not to betray his presence by his tracks, he moved to the edge of the container so he could see it more clearly. Thick armored plates lined its bow and belly, gun and missile arrays glittered on its stubby wings. He examined the configuration of the engine ports, wishing he hadn't lost his binoculars.

Sephiroth ducked back into the shadow of the containers. The airship was certainly a military vessel, which not only meant that the people who had picked them up were likely hostile, but it also made the possibility of using the airship as a means of escape extremely difficult. Unlike civilian units, which relied on keycards, passcodes, and other simple locks, the doors and central control panels on military grade vessels were keyed to the owners' voice and fingerprints. Even if he could force his way inside without being detected, the engines would not respond to anyone but the designated operator.

He turned away and skirted the scrapyard in the other direction. Before him was a wide flat expanse of snow, deeply rutted with vehicle tracks. On the far side of it, nestled in the side of the steeply rising terrain, was the dim outline of a vehicle bay. Mottled black and white camouflage netting was draped over its roof, swaying slightly in the wind. Two of its bay doors were open, one on the end nearest him, which was dark, and one toward the center, lit from within by the dirty amber light of a sodium arc lamp. Behind the wide curve of the vehicle bay he could just see the towering outline of a cylindrical fuel tank. A squat compound of buildings clustered on the ridge above, cold blue light leaking through the slit windows. Metal stairs wound their way up the slope, connecting the buildings.

There was a shout somewhere behind him. A heavyset man with a welding helmet perched on his head wandered out of the lit vehicle bay and angrily shouted something back. Sephiroth pressed himself flatter against the wall of the container and twisted his neck so he could get a better look over his left shoulder toward the direction of the sound. Two men were approaching the vehicle bay from the direction of the airship. One was carrying a toolbox and what looked like a pair of boltcutters. They were wearing nondescript white coveralls, as oil spotted and scuffed as any mechanics, but as they passed by Sephiroth saw automatic weapons hanging heavily from a strap across their shoulders. The mechanics set down their tools in the doorway of the vehicle bay, sickly yellow in the harsh light. One of them leaned up against the doorframe, shifting his gun to the other shoulder. The welder brought out another box of tools from somewhere inside the bay and set them down on the ground. He produced a brown glass bottle from his chest pocket, took a deep draft from it, coughed, then handed it around. They were saying something but Sephiroth was too far away to hear what they were saying. He shifted his position, picking his way to the edge of the scrapyard. By crouching in a thicket of snarled cable, he was able to catch bits and pieces of their conversation.

"I hate these fucking night shifts," said one of the mechanics, gulping down a mouthful of liquor with hollowed cheeks. He was younger than the others, thin and rangy, with angry black eyes. "It's the fourth goddamn week."

"You shouldn't have beaten the foreman at cards. What did we tell you? Was those couple hundred gil worth it?", the other mechanic said. He and the welder sniggered. The young mechanic stared back at them balefully and took another drink.

"Shut up."

The other mechanic shifted his weapon uncomfortably. "We wouldn't be on night shift if Kardyrov's wasn't so goddamn cagey. There's no way those bastards will strike back. It's been over two months now."

"Yeah, well, what the hell will they attack us with?" The welder guffawed, rubbing his bristly beard. "we bombed those fuckers flat."

"Yeah, too flat. There was nothing left for us. Think about it. Less good salvage, less money in our pockets. So we're stuck scavenging shit like this in the middle of the night." The older mechanic jerked a thumb in the direction of the containers. He took an unsteady step backwards; clearly this wasn't the first round of drinking he had been indulging in that night.

The younger mechanic scowled. "I hope they do attack us. It would at least be something to do." He turned his weapon around and raised it to his eyes, training it across the field on an invisible enemy. He swept his line of sight right past Sephiroth without seeing him, then aimed at the ruined helicopter and squeezed off a quick spate of rounds into its tailfin. The slugs snapped into the metal with a harsh report; a second later a section of the tail sloughed off and rattled to the ground. The harsh clatter of its impact was startling in the deep stillness of the night.

"What are you doing?" shouted the welder.

"Whatever the hell I want," the young mechanic snarled. He aimed his weapon at the welders' head and held it there. "What, you're afraid I'm wasting Kardyrov's ammunition? I could waste more. He wouldn't mind." The welder put up his hands, his flushed cheeks draining. The young mechanic laughed, poking the welder in the gut with the muzzle of his weapon. The welder didn't move. The young mechanic spun away, tossing his gun over his shoulder. He was grinning, with a wild, manic look in his eyes. "Come on old man, they're waiting for us,"he spat, grabbing his toolbox and stalking away.

The older mechanic picked up his tools, put his head down and followed, keeping his distance. The welder drank deeply, and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He stood staring off into space for a minute or two, turning the bottle over in his hands, then eventually tottered back inside the building.

Sephiroth considered what he had witnessed. Could these be the same people that had taken out Baral? They were certainly equipped for it, and the timeframe was roughly correct. A hard dark knot began to form in his gut. He remembered Baral's shattered body, his dead eyes reflecting the blazing arctic sky. For a moment the thought flashed through him like sheet lightning, images of wreaking a sudden, bloody revenge. He checked himself sharply. He hadn't come this far to mete out justice between competing warlords. Aerith was very weak, and growing weaker. It was uncertain how much longer she could last. He just needed to find some kind of transport and get out.

After checking that no one else was in evidence on the ridge above or in the dark perimeter of the base, Sephiroth broke his cover and traversed the open space to the darkened vehicle bay, ducking inside the doorway. He pressed himself flat against the inner wall, glanced quickly outside to check if anyone had seen him, then moved toward the interior of the bay. There was a dimly glowing access panel above a door at the back; it gave him just enough light to see. There was a workbench next to the door, littered with parts, but other than a few spare tires stacked on the floor, the bay was empty. Sephiroth checked the door, first glancing out through its reinforced glass window to confirm there was no one on the other side of it. It was unlocked, opening onto a long hallway that connected the back of all the bays. Florescent lights flickered in the ceiling, illuminating the peeling gray paint on the walls. Rusty water dribbled from a crack in the corner of the ceiling, streaking down the side of one wall and forming a reddish puddle on the floor. Sephiroth stepped through it, barely disturbing the surface.

The far end of the passage appeared to intersect with a dark tunnel that seemed to lead deeper into the mountain. It most likely led up toward the compound, Sephiroth guessed, or to weapons storage. He made his way down the hall. The dry fizzle of a plasma arc welder spat regularly from behind the welder's door, flashing brilliant blue white. He lightly stepped past and started checking the other bays. The first two were empty, but the third looked promising. Sephiroth slid inside, closing the door behind him soundlessly. A vehicle was parked in the middle of the bay, covered with a spotted oilcloth. One ear still trained on the progress of the welder, Sephiroth lifted the corner of the cloth.

The light from the hall pooled and slid along the sleek lines of a Naga motorcycle, the successor to the more temperamental Fenrir models. It had been modified for the arctic terrain with hobnailed tires and a hasty coating of matte white paint. He checked the instrument panel. Good. It was full of fuel, the main tank and the panniers. That gave him a range of around 700 miles, depending on terrain. It should be enough. The electrical units were charged and were reading within normal parameters. He just needed to find the keycard.

With a flick of his wrist he replaced the cloth. He scanned the walls, the surface of the workbench but found nothing. The keycards would most likely be kept together, he thought, remembering the lockers he had seen at ShinRa headquarters. It was standard practice, even in the field. One by one he searched the remaining bays, but while they were full of similar vehicles in various stages of storage and repair, none contained the keycard locker.

Sephiroth stood just inside the doorway in the last bay, hidden in the shadow of the door. He could see now that the perpendicular passage had been cut directly into the rock of the mountain; it staggered back about twenty meters, terminating in what looked like some kind of staging area. He crept deeper into the tunnel to investigate, using the rocky outcroppings on the walls as cover. As he got closer, he saw that the staging area opened up much further to his right; in the center of the space the slender shaft of a mining elevator rose up into darkness. A set of iron stairs spiraled around it. Four or five men stood clustered in the murky glow on far side of the elevator where a few lights had been strung, but from his angle it was difficult to tell if they were guards, mechanics, or just workers waiting for their assignment. They paced around, stamping in the misty air, smoking and talking amongst themselves in low, furtive tones. It would be difficult to get past them, but if he timed it correctly he might be able to leap the first flight of stairs and climb the back side of the elevator caging to make the rest of his ascent. He waited patiently, studying their movements for the first opportunity.

A radio chirped, and one of the men put a walkie talkie handset up to his ear. The man took a moment to listen, then gestured to the group. The men started shuffling down the tunnel, a dirty mass of exhausted irritability, flicking their spent cigarettes on the floor. The team leader yelled at them to pick up the pace. Sephiroth ducked back inside the nearest bay and let them pass. Most were unvested and lightly armed with the same automatic weapons as the mechanics, although a few brandished flashier handguns at their hips. Most likely they were just workers or lower level footsoldiers. He waited until they were well outside the vehicle bay and then resumed his search. A brief but efficient scan of the staging area did not locate the keycard locker. He looked up, at the elevator shaft disappearing into the ceiling. He had already been gone over an hour by his estimates; who knew what he would find up in the compound above. An image of Aerith unfolded in his mind, her thin frame huddled against the side of the container, still and quiet, patiently waiting for him in the dark. He couldn't come back to her emptyhanded. His mighty will settled inside himself, immovable as stone, irrevocable as death: He would get the keycard, steal the Naga, and take them away from this place.

The ascent up the elevator cage was straightforward enough. The steel beams were damp with condensation and somewhat slippery but wide enough to make easy hand and footholds. The elevator car was sitting at the very top of the track. Sephiroth slipped inside through the maintenance hatch in its ceiling and dropped down to the floor. The elevator opened on a dim bunker hallway made of arced concrete. A riveted steel door broke its monotony. The door was partly ajar. Sephiroth approached cautiously and nudged it open with his foot. The opening door brought with it the rich coppery smell of metal and gun oil. The room was unoccupied; a large square warehouse full of racked weapons and equipment, cordoned off and locked behind a steel mesh cage. It was the quartermaster's office, most likely. A battered desk sat just in front of the caging, strewn with papers and clipboards full of forms. An empty Styrofoam cup rested on its side on top of them, dark spots of coffee beading on its rim, bleeding into the papers below. A small gray cabinet hung on the wall next to the desk, a brass padlock dangling open from its catch.

Sephiroth heard the sudden tread of footsteps behind him, moving fast, and ducked inside the office. He pressed himself against the inside wall and waited. A second later a soldier, fully arrayed in helmet and armored vest, burst through the door. Sephiroth waited the long second until the door had closed behind him. One hard fast strike to the pressure point just under the left side of his collarbone and he was down, unconscious, wheezing deep labored breaths from his partially collapsed lung. Sephiroth stalked over to the desk and pulled open the drawers. A fat wad of keys was in the second drawer, resting beside a half eaten sandwich and a stack of well thumbed porn magazines. He found the key that opened the weapons cage and dragged the soldier inside, hiding him behind one of the racks, hopefully out of earshot of whomever entered. He locked the weapons cage behind him then turned to the gray cabinet hanging on the wall. Dozens of keycards hung in neat plastic rows. They were numbered, and there was surely a manifest that would tell him exactly what they belonged to, but he didn't have the time to look for it. He snatched them all off of their hooks and stuffed them in the chest pocket of his parka, then snapped the lock shut on the cabinet door. Sephiroth wasted no time in making his escape, the keycards and the wad of the quartermaster's keys clacking faintly in his parka as he moved.

More workmen and troops had moved into the staging area in his absence; they seemed agitated but he was too concentrated on getting to the vehicle bay to pay much attention to them beyond their positions and sightlines. After waiting a good quarter of an hour perched in the ironwork of the elevator cage, he was finally able to cross undetected. In the darkness of vehicle bay 12, anxious at the increasing number of workmen and soldiers that were passing by, Sephiroth checked keycards, fitting them into the ignition slot of the Naga one after the other. With only a scant handful of cards left to try, suddenly the instrument panel flared to life, illuminating a brilliant firefly green. The onboard navsat began searching for a signal, the engine a deep throaty purr. Satisfied, he killed the engine and put the keycard back in his pocket. He put the rest in a pile on top of the steel topped workbench along with the bundle of keys. He called a Fire spell, holding its focus on the top of the bench. The keycards curled then melted into a puddle of tarry black goo. By the time the spell subsided they had been converted to ash, the set of keys welded tight to the metal surface of the benchtop. It would keep them from following them as they made their escape, on land at least.

By the time he made it back outside, with a clear line of sight, it was certain the situation in the scrapyard had changed. Workmen were already beginning to tear apart the containers on the far side of the yard, loading the contents onto wooden pallets that they pulled across the snow. It wouldn't be long that they noticed the missing keys and the guard he had subdued would revive eventually. He had to get to Aerith, and fast.

The way back was difficult. There were workmen and soldiers everywhere and, worse yet, they had erected floodlamps on the side of the scrapyard, which eliminated much of the darkness he had counted on for cover. It was only through careful timing and the relative inattention of a pair of guards that he was able to make the long open expanse from the vehicle bay to the scrapyard undetected. Sephiroth pressed himself against the corrugated wall of the container on the outermost section of the array, listening to the sound of boots crunching just on the other side of it. They paced toward him, then away, then toward him again. A workman appeared, gun slung on his back, but he was facing away, looking at the next container over. Sephiroth tensed, waiting for him to begin to turn around, preparing to seize him by his gunstrap and pull him backwards out of sight so he could quietly incapacitate him.

Sephiroth stood frozen, his breathing slow and deep. But the workman only shouted something to his foreman and wandered back the way he came. Sephiroth peered around the corner, waiting until the workman disappeared. He stepped carefully in the dark canyons between the containers, moving silently, his senses open and wary. Only a row over, and two more two units to the right. Getting back inside the container and out again would be the hardest part, he thought, the lights were bright, and there was nowhere to hide. Detection might be inevitable. There would be some initial confusion as they were discovered, which he would exploit, but then they'd have to fight their way out. Aerith flickered through his thoughts. He thought of her lighting up to see him, her gentle smile breathless with relief; he imagined her arms around him, leaning heavily on his back as they sped away on the Naga, the ground a white blur beneath them. He had left the outer door of vehicle bay 12 unlocked. They just had to make it there.

Sephrioth checked his path, then slid between two containers, the same way he had initially traversed. He stopped short. The end was blocked. It had been clear when he had come this way before. With a sick sense of foreboding, he doubled back and tried the other side. When he emerged, it was obvious what had happened.

The doors of their container were bent wide open, the panels fire blackened and distorted as if they had been wrenched apart with great force. Spools were scattered far and wide, the silver wire glinting in the dirty snow, which had been kicked up from some kind of struggle. Three crimson tracks of bloodspatter crisscrossed the threshold of the container, trailing off in the direction of the compound. Aerith was nowhere to be found. They had taken her. Sephiroth's mind raced as he took it in, remembering the feral snarl of the young mechanic. He knew what men like that would do to her, if she was still alive.

"Hey!" A soldier barked, close at hand, stepping from just behind the edge of the next container. Sephiroth took him down before he had time to fire his weapon, an easy swipe across the legs to drop him, then up in an elegant backslash across the body. Masamune split his thick armored vest like a ripe pea pod and in an instant the man crumpled, unconscious and bleeding out. Sephiroth shoved him as he fell, pushing his body in between containers where he would be hard to notice. He turned and stared up at the fuel tank, at the compound at the top of the hill. Breathing hard, and shivering with rage and adrenaline, he touched the snow before him with the tip of his sword, as if swearing an oath to the earth. He had already been generous, much more than they deserved. Now nothing would stop him and no one would escape. He would find Aerith, then burn it all, to the ground.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

_This can't be real,_ Aerith thought_. Someone please say this isn't real._

The corridor whipped past, too fast, a blur of concrete walls, steel grating floor, but somehow she was walking, a guard on either side of her, shoving her forward. She walked, but her legs moved without her knowing it; her body was made out of smoke, unreal and far away on some other plane. Even the pain gnawing in her chest felt as if it belonged to someone else. She had just killed eight people, probably more. Not knocked them out, as she had used to do. Not stunned. Killed. Dead.

Aerith stared at her sticky hands and twisted them futilely in their restraints, rubbing her wrists together, the plastic straps cutting into her skin. She looked down at herself. Her parka was splashed with blood from the men she had killed. It pooled under her nails in rust brown crescents, and she could feel stiff clots of it drying in her hair.

Aerith felt the tremor begin deep in her belly; it pulled the feeling from her limbs, her strength evaporating. She began to shake uncontrollably, her legs buckling under her. The floor rushed up, but the soldiers seized her before she struck the ground and forced her back onto her feet, shouting in their harsh, guttural language. Aerith stumbled forward, still staring at her bound, bloody hands. Her mind replayed what had just happened, the lines between reality and memory blurring into one long internal scream of all consuming terror.

She had waited in the container, motionless in a numb torpor, for what seemed like forever. Vaguely she remembered hearing footsteps around the outside of the container, coming and going, the incomprehensible voices of the soldiers shouting back and forth. Someone passed by outside and suddenly there was a vicious pounding at the bolt. She startled, then froze, hardly daring to breathe, but the bolt held. Someone shouted, directly outside, and she saw the fingers of a worn gray work glove grasp the bent edge at the top of the door and shake it back and forth, trying to work it loose. She could hear the man's heavy breathing; it gusted in through the gap at the top of the door. The man gave the door another rough shake, jumped down, and was gone.

She exhaled. There were more voices outside. She heard something scrape along the outside of the container, again the door was shaken, then there was a loud pop. Sparks began to rain in through every gap, the brilliant white flare of a cutting torch chewing through the bolt of the container. Helpless, she watched the burning bead travel downward, leaving behind a pair of glowing red tracks. The ivory handle of the knife was in her hand and she clenched it, slowly realizing what she must do. The smoke from the torch and the acrid smell of hot metal stung her throat and eyes. She backed against the far wall of the container but there was nowhere else to go. Her heart mashed up in her throat, pounding madly, and she couldn't breathe. Panicking, she tried to call a spell, something to defend herself with, but it wouldn't come and her heart stuttered with the strain. The doors were suddenly wrenched apart; she registered the dirty gray and green of the soldiers' parkas and the dark shine of their eyes, matching the black metal of their guns. They spoke to each other uneasily, lifted their weapons and began to advance. One said something over his shoulder to the man standing behind him. He pointed at the long hair flowing out from under the hood of her parka, and smiled a slow oily smile.

Unbidden and automatic, a harsh high scream of rage and terror poured from her throat, as piercing as a falcon's cry. She leapt forward and slashed at the hands that reached for her. Someone howled in pain, a man jumped back, clutching his ruined hands, but there were so many of them. She cut mercilessly, not thinking. A gun went off, close to her ear; the flash etched her vision, the afterimage floating in the air like a burning red ghost. She scrabbled in the spools, fighting them off with everything she had, but it was not enough. One of them knocked the knife out of her hands, then crushed her up against the wall and pressed the barrel of his gun into her windpipe so hard it made her choke. Seizing her by her hair, they dragged her toward the entrance. Wounded men staggered out of the container, bleeding, holding their slashed arms and bellies. _No,_ she thought, _it couldn't end this way, not like this_. A mighty pulse was gathering within her, but from where the energy came from, she didn't know. She struggled madly, kicking and biting like a wild animal. Bright pain sparkled at her nape as the soldiers tore out a clump of her hair, struggling to constrain her. She felt herself being dragged toward the mouth of the container, but she couldn't let them, she couldn't let them take her…suddenly all thought rushed away as the air shimmered, then caught fire. There was an unearthly roar then everything went white. Men tumbled out of the container like burning leaves, collapsing into the snow in smoking heaps. Aerith felt herself fall free, suddenly released, then fell down hard on her side. The knife was on the ground beneath her, she could feel the ribbed handle poking her in her ribs. Still blinded by the flash, she grabbed the knife and leapt to her feet, ready to run as fast and as far away as she could. Her vision coming back in stripes and spots, she tripped over the welding equipment at the mouth of the container and stumbled out into the snow. A soldier ran up from behind the container, two more behind him. Without thinking, Aerith stabbed him, sinking the knife deep into the thick muscle of his neck. As she withdrew it, the man checked her with his body and she fell backward and bounced off the open door of the container, hitting her head. She sprawled in the snow, holding her head with one hand and sweeping outward with the blade, but more soldiers had already surrounded her before she could get back on her feet. One bashed her forearm with the butt of his rifle, sending the knife flying out of her grasp. A second strike to her ribs left her curled up in a ball, gasping for breath. She lay with the jagged frost cutting into her cheek, her ears ringing, disarmed and utterly exhausted as they stood over her, cursing. Somewhere, four or five yards off, she heard a man groaning in pain. She heard the metallic ping of a lighter as one of them standing by her head lit a cigarette. They kicked her in the ribs a few times more for good measure before dragging her away.

Aerith snapped back to reality. She was standing in front of a door stenciled with yellow letters. The soldiers were barking at her. There was unbearable pain and pressure in her belly where they had kicked her; she was breathing hard and fast as the reality of her surroundings slowly began to dawn on her. The door slid open onto a room hazy with smoke. The soldiers shoved her forward. A few men sat around a large smooth table in a dimly lit boardroom. The table was littered with papers and bottles, punctuated with overflowing ashtrays which wept a fine layer of ash and burnt paper onto its glossy surface. An automatic pistol and several loaded clips weighted down the corner of a crumpled and stained map. Aerith heard the jangle of a chain. A white longhaired dog was lying on the floor under the table and had raised its head to look at her. As if it knew it could be of no help, it whimpered sadly, shaking its heavy collar and the chain that tied it to the table, then put its head back down on its dirty paws. The barrel of a gun jabbed sharply into her back, and she took a few reeling steps forward. The man at the head of the table, large and bulky with a blocky head bristling with blonde stubble, looked her over appraisingly. He drew slowly from the cigar jammed between his thick fingers, and, as he stared, let the smoke curl slowly from the edges of his mouth until it dissipated. His ice blue eyes narrowed, the dirty blond eyebrows above them barely moving in his heavy brow. He said something to the soldiers, pouring a clear liquid from one of the bottles into a gilded tea glass. He jabbed a finger in her direction and said something that sounded like a question. The soldier replied, nodding. Aerith watched him lift the tea glass to his mouth. There was something about the glass that seemed oddly familiar, as if she had seen it before. Half of it was darkened, the gilding discolored, as if it had passed through a fire, one side of the rim marred with a bullseye chip.

But there was no more time to think, as the blonde man set the glass down sharply and got to his feet, glowering at her. He started talking, his rough voice low at first, but then with increasing vehemence. The man barreled up to her, screaming in her face, crushing her bound hands against him. Aerith smelt the tang of alcohol on his breath and felt flecks of his spittle landing on her face, but the soldiers behind her kept her from taking a step back or moving away. She kept her eyes on the ground, focusing deep within herself. The man towered over her, his massive bulk blocking out the light from the dim lamps. He tore off her hood, grabbed the auburn length of her hair, shook it, then angrily tossed it aside. When she did not respond he grabbed her by the chin and forced her to look at him, streams of unknown hatred pouring from his mouth. Aerith stared into his pale blue eyes, unblinking.

Enraged with her lack of response, the man seized her and shook her so hard she heard her teeth rattling in her head. Finally he threw her down against the table and struck her heavily on the back of her head. Aerith pitched forward and caught her side against the edge of the table. She cried out involuntarily but she couldn't believe that that sound, that thin and reedy bleat, was her voice. Snickering came from the men still seated at the table. She clung to the edge of the table for a few moments until her legs gave out and she dropped to the floor.

This was it, she thought, staring at the boots of the men shifting under the table, at the sad eyes of the dog. She couldn't cast, she couldn't heal herself, she was too weak to fight, and weaponless. This man, she thought, this brute one step above a thoughtless animal, was going to beat her to death in this dirty room and there was nothing she could do about it.

As she waited, her body shivering in preparation for the next blow, one of the doors to the room opened and a man staggered in, gasping. His uniform was torn and smeared with soot and he looked pale. He said something that made the blonde man pause, then reply in a disbelieving tone. They bantered back and forth, with increasing alarm, then the man stalked past her heading toward the door. He turned and paused enough to give some kind of directions to the remaining occupants of the room, glaring down at Aerith like she was a worm he wished he could crush with the heel of his boot.

A door opened in the back of the room and she heard steps approaching. A shadow fell over her and she felt a gentle pressure on her arm, pulling her up. With difficultly, Aerith turned her head. An older man with a graying crew cut, dressed in a shapeless grey-green jacket and threadbare fatigues, tugged insistently at her elbow and helped her to her feet. His dark brown eyes flickered over her bruises and for a second she thought she saw pity run through them, but it soon vanished, replaced by a vacant expression of numb docility. His rough hand encircled her bound wrists and she hissed through her teeth at the sudden pain but took a few haltering steps forward. Aerith walked the best as could manage, hunched over and limping. They made their way down hallway after hallway, all of them alike, until at last an elevator brought them up to the surface. They stepped out onto the hard packed snow under a black night sky, the stars a million pinpoints of cold light. From far below Aerith thought she could hear gunfire. The man looked frightened and lead her more aggressively, taking her by the hands and pulling her across the open space toward a half timbered building that was long and low. The doorway was made out of heavy square timbers, with a deep threshold made out of flat stones. Aerith leaned against it, resting, while the man went through a set of wrought skeleton keys on an iron ring, searching for the one that matched the lock. After trying key after key, the lock ground open and the man pushed the thick door inwards. The scent of hay and the slightly sweet grassy smell of Chocobos floated up out of the darkness. The man pulled her inside, lighting a dusty kerosene lantern to see with.

The stable appeared not to have been used for a while, and nothing, save a few restless mice, stirred in the approaching light of the man's lantern. The stalls were steel cages of woven metal, reaching all the way to the ceiling, with sturdy doors that latched and locked from the outside. A corrugated pipe was at the back of each stall, coming up through the packed earth floor and out just under the eaves of the roof. As Aerith watched in a pain-red haze, the man went from stall to stall, putting his hands on each pipe, until he found one somewhere behind her that met his unknown criteria. Moving stiffly, he dragged a fresh bale of hay inside the stall, broke it up by kicking at it with his boots, then clumsily heaped it into a pile against the pipe. Babbling incomprehensibly, he pulled Aerith to her feet, and sat her down on top of the hay. He patted the pipe, then nodded at her, then patted it again. Aerith made no response; she stared off into space, fighting unconsciousness. The man placed the lantern on the ground beside her, then tottled away. A second later she heard the lock on the stall door grind shut, then she was alone.

Aerith leaned against the pipe. It radiated heat and she pressed herself closer against it, burrowing deep into the fragrant hay. The brittle strands enclosed her in a way that was strangely comforting, even as they prickled against her skin. The grass had had to come from somewhere, she thought, somewhere far away from this place. Her mind gave her a vision of wide green meadows, lush with life and growth, waving gently in the wind in that supple way that only grass knows how to move. Aerith stared into the flame of the kerosene lantern. Her head throbbed in time with her pulse and her vision blurred perilously. When it snapped back into focus she saw the curved edge of a long black feather sticking up out of the hay. She seized it, her fractured ribs flaring in pain. _Give me strength_, she thought, to the earth, to the life that once had been. Sephiroth would come for her, she thought, her thoughts slipping away. She tightened her grip on the feather. It was impossible to know how much time she had, how long they were planning to hold her here, or what those men would do with her. It was only a matter of time, and she would have to see who would get to her first.


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

Panic spread across the base like a deadly contagion. Reports were coming in of entire companies being cut down by a grey ghost, by a man that moved like the mist, impossible to hit and lightning fast. He commanded magic they had never seen before; he broke the ground like glass and called down blue hellfire from the sky. Soldiers who dared to challenge him dropped dead where they stood, cut asunder before they could move, or staggered away struck blind, deaf, mute, retching poison. Where he passed, nothing remained unscathed. Already the airship and most of the lower compound were ablaze, burning out of control. The fire raged unchecked through the fuel tanks, detonating them one by one. The more superstitious among the men swore he was the Cetepya-Ahren, the avenging deathangel, come for them all. The personnel not held in check by the few remaining commanders deserted, vanishing out into the black arctic night.

Deep in the heart of the sprawling upper compound, Sephiroth moved briskly, searching from room to room. He scanned each new space with the efficiency of a machine, his green eyes narrowed, every movement calculated not to waste a single second unnecessarily. The severe serenity of his face and bearing belied the tension mounting inside him. His awareness was pulled tight and screaming, a fine dancing hairtrigger of an almost unbearable anxiety. They had been so close to their freedom; if only he had gotten to her sooner, he thought. Even a few minutes might have made a difference. They made all the difference now. Every second passing fell like a hammerblow. He tightened his grip on Masamune. The sword answered him with a surge of power that rushed all the way up into his throat and sunk its claws deep into his solar plexus, urging him on.

Sephiroth picked up his pace. The floor he was on seemed mostly composed of storerooms and mechanical equipment. Up ahead, the steel jaws of an incinerator chute jutted out from the side of the hallway, with yellow garbage bins stacked beside it. Beside them was a scuffed metal door. The door had a small diamond shaped window at head-height, glass reinforced with wire mesh. Sephiroth peered quickly inside, and then toed the door open. It was the kitchen. It was unoccupied, arranged galley-style with steel counters in two long rows. Their surface was sticky with yellow grease and the room smelt heavily of rancid oil and mouldy airducts. There were a pair of crash doors on the far end, which presumably lead to the mess hall. Suddenly the lights flickered; the pots and pans swug on their ceiling hooks, clattering, and Sephiroth felt a quick ripple pass through the floor as something down on the lower field detonated. He waited a second, listening for movement, shaking the blood from his sword. It had finally thawed enough to flow, and made a trail of brilliant red poppies on the greasy linoleum as he moved across the room. With a brief cursory glance through the crevice of the crash doors, he kicked them open and twisted to the left, raising his sword to the level of his eyes.

There were three older men sitting at a table in the far corner. They had not heard him as he had passed through the kitchen: he had caught them by surprise. In one quick lunge he closed the distance between them and pointed Masamune at their throats. One of them had been eating; the spoon he had been holding dropped out of his grasp and clattered, spattering brown stew on the streaky steel surface of the table.

Sephiroth stared at them, his face a mask of cold deadly malice.

"Where is the woman you found in the container?" he asked them in their native tongue. "Your people took her. She is somewhere in this compound. You must take me to her." The men looked at him, eyes wide, like rodents, and their shriveling fear only made him hate them more. Involuntarily they were leaning away, trying to press themselves against the wall. One man shook his head back and forth.

"I don't know, I don't know what you're talking about." He breathed. Sephiroth eyed the man, sensing the jittery recklessness in his movements, the clumsy contraction of his muscles preparing to spring. He would be the first to try to make a break for it. With the same smooth grace as a serpent gliding through the grass, Sephiroth sidestepped and shifted the point of his sword until it pointed at his eyes. The man's defeat was instantaneous. He deflated, resting his hands on the table in front of him, keeping his eyes fixed on some indeterminate spot on the far wall. Sephiroth noticed that the men's fatigues were old and faded; their bodies well padded with fat, their hair thinning, wiry, gray. They were not soldiers, at least not any more. They had no will to fight him, much less the strength. A flicker of pity passed through him. For once, he listened to it.

"If you can tell me anything, I will let you live."

The men shifted uncomfortably, staring at the floor. One cleared his throat, and when he spoke, his voice was weak yet strained, as if each word took an enormous effort to generate.

"Jenner was in here earlier; he took a bowl of porridge to the stables. He wouldn't say why. It was strange. The stable is empty. We haven't kept Chocobos for years." The men looked up at him expectantly, waiting to see if that answer would be good enough for them to be spared. Sephiroth read the old man's face, his slumped body like a dried husk, his calmly folded hands. He was earnest, and seemed too weary, weary of everything, to be lying.

"You and you may go. Do not do anything that might make me change my mind, " Sephiroth growled, gesturing with his sword. He pointed at each man in turn, until it rested on the speaker.

"You. Take me there. Now. Then you may go free."

The old man rose stiffly, bracing one thickly veined hand on the tabletop. He took a moment to think, blinking. Another ripple passed through the building and a fine sifting of dust filtered down from the ceiling, covering everything in a gritty white veil.

"This way," the old man said and led him from the room through a side door that was not the main exit. It opened onto a cold and dark concrete staircase. From somewhere above him Sephiroth could hear water dripping. Panting with obvious strain, sweat beading on his face, the old man lead him down two flights of stairs, through an equipment storage room coated with dust, then down a long hallway. At the end of it, in the gloomy pool of light cast by a single bulb, an iron staircase lead upward several storeys.

The old man rested heavily against the iron railing at the base of the stairs. "We're in the old section now. The surface buildings are up there," he said, one hand pressed to his chest as he wheezed perilously, trying to catch his breath. "Go through the door and across the courtyard to the left. It's a short building, very old, the only one made out of wood and stones."

Without a second glance at the old man, Sephiroth leapt forward and took the stairs two at a time, his boots ringing brightly on the metal. Dust vortexed around him, scintillating in the freezing air. Legs pumping, he reached the top and tore open the outer door. Sephiroth stepped out into a knee high snowdrift, the choking chemical smell of smoke hitting him like a physical force. It billowed up in thick black ropes from the conflagration below; the wind was blowing it back onto the entire hillside and the snow was streaked gray with ash. His eyes stung and he put his free arm up to his face to block the worst of it. He stepped forward out from under the eave of the doorframe to get his bearings. Other than the rumbling of the fire below and the occasional gust of wind, it was dead silent.

The stables were where they were supposed to be, with the furrowed lines of three tracks crossing the courtyard toward it, one leading away. As he walked toward them, Sephiroth scanned the breadth of the courtyard. The deep orange light of the fire below turned everything to bronze, to beaten brass, the open field tumbling with smoke like the floor of a blast furnace. Through the raining ash he glanced up at the surrounding hills, checking for snipers. Something moved and he heard rocks shake loose and fall. For a second he thought he saw a human shape, ducking into a crevice. After ducking for cover quickly behind the corner of a storage shed, Sephiroth looked again, cursing the ash and his bleary burning eyes.

No, what he had seen was real. About eighty feet up, half hidden among the rocks, a shambling figure in a gray parka was working its way up the jagged slope, away from the buildings at the very edge of the courtyard. It appeared completely unarmed and from the way it was moving, wounded. It was hunched over, each movement slow and deliberate. It took a few small steps, heavily favoring one leg, then sat down suddenly, coughing. The trail of coughing ended in a pitiful whimpering. The sound carried, high and light, a womans' voice. A shock of recognition went through Sephiroth like a spear.

Without a seconds' hesitation he stabbed Masamune down into the snow and ran, screaming Aerith's name. As he closed the distance he saw her turn, then, with her sightline unbroken, crumple slowly to the ground, sliding with her back against the rocks.

When he reached her eyes were glazed with pain and exhaustion but seemed to recognize him. Tear tracks streaked the dirt on her face but she was not crying, now. He knelt down next to her.

"You've come at last," she said, her voice a whisper. "I knew you would."

"Yes." Sephiroth said. Failure twisted in his guts like fishooks. Somehow she had escaped and he had by chance managed to find her here, dragging herself up the face of the escarpment. He could only imagine the hell she had been through. He desperately wanted to ask but couldn't bring himself to do it, and she was in no shape to answer.

Sephiroth looked her over. She wore no gloves and clutched a long black feather in her left hand and a jagged chunk of concrete in her right. Her parka was filthy and bloodspattered and the snaps had been torn out of the flap at her neck, the zipper hanging open. He tried to zip it back up again, but it was broken, the teeth warped. He buttoned the two outer buttons that remained, just to keep it together. It would have to be enough until he could get her to the bike, where he had a blanket and supplies.

The knuckles on her right hand, the one that clutched the concrete, were bleeding freely, her sleeve was soaked to the elbow. Her hand shook, the muscles spasming endlessly. Although he was no stranger to wounds, the sight was profoundly disturbing.

Taking great care not to hurt her any more than he knew he must, he eased the crumbling chunk of concrete out of her hand. Her fingers were locked into their grip and she relinquished it uneasily, with a little cry of pain that wrung his heart. She seemed not to have any will left. She looked at him, deep into his eyes, as he held her wounded hand and cast a healing spell. He waited for the green shimmer of the magic to finish playing across her skin before addressing her again. Her sticky fingers curled around his own with delicacy, her touch like plant tendrils, with the same seeking of support.

"Can you stand?"

Her gaze was glassy, staring out into space. She had retreated inside herself. Her lower lip was trembling as if she might burst into tears at any moment. She rocked forward and back slightly, consoling herself. He had seen that vacant look before, in the faces of soldiers driven mad by war, after days of heavy shelling. The shock could take days to break.

Wordlessly, he put one arm under her and eased her up. She took a few tentative steps and fathered, refusing to put weight on her left leg. He considered the steep slope, full of rocks. She wouldn't make it.

"I will carry you," he said in her ear, and hoped that wherever she was, that she heard him. He lifted her. From this height he could see the towering inferno of the fuel tanks, the black filigree skeleton of the ruined airship. Aerith was watching, too, her eyes full of fire. Just as the wind began to shift he had made it back to the courtyard, his boots shushing through the soft snow. He snapped up Masamune one handed and made his way down to the burning valley below. His progress was unimpeded, as he knew it would be.

"It's not much farther," he said, feeling the heat from the flames on his face. Aerith felt them too, and pulled away, burrowing into the folds of his parka. He was glad she wouldn't see the rest of the carnage that was scattered across the rest of the valley, bodies of men lying thick as flies. He wanted to feel sorry for them but even in his wrath he had given each of them a choice: run and live, fight him and die. It was more than they deserved.

"We're here. I will put you down now." He stamped out a place for her in the side of a snowbank and placed her in the hollow so she could be out of the wind while he made his final preparations. The Naga was just a few feet away, cloaked in white and gray camouflage netting. Sephiroth tossed the netting aside and checked it. It started easily and he let it idle as he lifted Aerith up onto it. He knotted a blanket around her shoulders , then got on in front of her. He revved the engine.

"Hold on tight. " he said. Sephiroth felt her arms snake around his waist and clasp him, burrowing her gloveless hands into his coat to keep them warm. The heavy weight of her head rested against his back, her thighs pressed tight against his own. This was the moment he had imagined, had anticipated with pleasure, but now all of it was wrong. The stars, so pure and vivid in his minds' eye, were blotted out with bitter smoke. Aerith had barely escaped, and the full extent of her damage was yet to be known. And he had killed and killed and killed…

Sephiroth eased up the kickstand, feeling the weight of the bike shift then center beneath him. He looked out into the darkness. The small square of rocky white ground illuminated by the headlight seemed insignificant to the vastness around them. The frigid air bit his lungs. He would make it right somehow, he thought. All of it. It was only two days to Icicle Inn, three at most. Sephiroth squeezed the handgrips of the Naga and the engine flared to life. The Nordkaat base, now just a burning plume in the rocky arctic waste, slid away. Beside their tracks, a long black feather marked their passage, tumbling in the snow behind them.


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

"I'd like to examine you before we move on further. There wasn't time back at the base." Sephiroth said, his voice slow with exhaustion. He shuffled forward on his knees toward her, hunching so the top of his head just brushed the low roof of the shelter. As he leaned in, Aerith could smell the bitter chemical smell of the smoke still on him, clinging to his clothes. A broad stripe of soot marred his cheek and the shorter pieces of hair around his face were streaked black with ash.

Aerith's eyes flickered towards him, touching briefly. She lay motionless on the plump white folds of the sleeping bag, breathing like a feverish child. Her hood was half down and her hair spooled out from under it, streaming around her like a rich chestnut halo. The punishing white light of the midday sun blazed through the translucent roof of the shelter, and she squinted, then finally closed her eyes against it. Outside, the engine of the Naga ticked regularly, the overworked engine cooling down.

"Please," she said weakly, "My leg hurts." Aerith tried not to move a millimeter more than she had to but she gingerly lifted her foot and placed it out to the side so that he could look at it.

Her body was a cage of pain, her mind blank and black and numb. Lost within herself, she could still feel the sensation of flying through the endless dark, the vibration of the Naga chattering over the rocky ground, the wind scorching her lungs and face and fingers with cold. The night had gone on and on; in her weaker moments she had doubted she would ever see the sun again. They had ridden ten hours straight. They needed to ride ten more before stopping to rest for the night.

Sephiroth was glad to hear her speak. She seemed lucid, at least for the moment. Perhaps the shock was breaking. He pushed the hem of her snowpants up to her knee. Aerith jerked away involuntarily, hissing with pain as the fabric brushed her skin.

"I'm sorry," he said. She put her foot back in front of him, breathing through her teeth. The fabric of the white thermal leggings she wore underneath her snow pants was straining, the textured surface lightly dotted with blood, the flesh beneath lumpy and swollen.

Sephiroth sat back on his heels. "I should give you some Opia. If it's broken you'll need it."

Aerith groaned. "It's broken, I'm sure of it." A white spur of fear went through her as she considered how things must proceed. Bones were tricky. You couldn't just carelessly cast a spell to heal them, they had to be set correctly or they'd knit in the wrong position. If it failed, there was no choice but to rebreak it and begin again.

"Just a little Opia, please," she said, already feeling sick.

"A little is all we have." A single seed rolled around in the bottom of the tin he offered her. She took it and chewed, the bitterness flashing instantly on her palate.

With nausea rising in the back of her throat, her head swimming, she felt him unlace her boot. The stiff leather cracked as he pulled it off. She felt his warm hands slide under her Achilles tendon, then worry at the cuff of her leggings. There was a sound of tearing fabric and her lower leg was cold, suddenly exposed to the air.

"I'll sew it back up later," he murmured.

"It's ok," Aerith said, belying her fear. It was all she could do not to scream; her breath caught in her throat, raking hoarsely in her parched mouth.

He surveyed the damage. "It's definitely broken," Sephiroth said. Shattered, really. Compound fibular fracture with soft tissue trauma. "Do you remember what happened?"

Aerith blinked. She wanted to turn away from him but her foot was cradled in his hands. She put the back of her forearm across her eyes. She didn't want to remember, but the drug had taken her now, and she had nothing left within her to resist it. The memories savaged her mind like a flock of locusts, simultaneously devouring and suffocating her in their awful clarity. Completely overwhelmed, she struggled to express herself, her breathing quick with fear.

"No, I don't know exactly. The soldiers…they used a torch to cut open the container. I couldn't fight them all. I tried. They beat me. A few times. They used their gun handles, kicked me with their boots."

"I am sorry." Sephiroth said. He scowled, palpating the broken edges of the bone under her skin.

In spite of the drug, Aerith winced at every touch. It hurt him to see her like this; the aftermath of what he could have prevented; suffering she was never meant to endure. The contusions surrounding the break were the same width as a rifle stock. He could see the strikes repeating in them; the soldiers had struck her multiple times in the same place, snapping the bone under the skin, cracking it in three places, then finished with a glancing blow just under her kneecap.

Deep sorrow, like black oil, welled in his heart. He had been gravely mistaken, leaving her alone like that. None of this would have happened if he had chosen differently, had taken her with him, or had chosen to wait with her, but all he could do now was try to make it right. He prayed it would be enough. Sephiroth took a quick breath.

"Aerith, I'm ready to set it now."

She gulped, air hungry. "Please. Not yet."

"Aerith, I have to. The sooner the better. You can't walk, you're bleeding under the skin, deep in the muscle." His hands slid up her leg, one underneath, one on top, no pressure now, just preparing for the sudden twisting motion he'd need to set the bones.

"No, don't do it. Don't, don't!" Aeriths' voice twisted and rose until she was shrieking. He froze. She trembled but from pain or fear or from something else, he didn't know.

"I can't, I can't bear any more of this…" she was sobbing now, lost in her own mind and utterly forsaken.

Jani had cried like that too, Sephiroth remembered, sometimes in the stairwells or in a corner of her room when she thought she was alone or he was at a lesson. He felt as powerless in the face of it now as he had then. But still, he must go to her, do something…

Her free hand rested on the sleeping bag between them, convulsing with her sobs. He reached out and placed his over it, pressing gently. Aerith turned her hand over to meet his, clasping him tightly, palm to palm, as if her life depended on it. Through her touch he could feel her tension, the fear and anxiety thrumming in the slender veins. She was terrified, but not just of the pain.

"It's ok. I won't force you, Aerith. I can try to splint the break in place until we get to Icicle Inn. We'll see a doctor there." Sephiroth looked down at her, hoping that the blood loss would be slow enough so that he wouldn't have to break his promise. Aerith continued to cry. She was exhausting herself, and she was so weak, she couldn't afford it.

Sephiroth covered her bare foot with the corner of the sleeping bag and lay down beside her. Aerith turned towards him, leaning against him for support. He felt her slowly relax against him, her small frame so strong yet so frail. She needed him, he realized. In a mute and desperate way she was reaching out to him for shelter, shelter that only he could give. He put his arm around her, letting her rest on the solidness and strength of his body. It was a strange feeling, to be needed, to really be wanted for something other than as an instrument to something else.

"I'm here now," he said to her, almost in a whisper, "We're safe. Nothing more can happen to you."

Aerith pursed her lips, her brow furrowed. She looked far off into space, into a gaping void he could not see.

"No..no…" she murmured. It was as if something within her had fallen away. Worried at her sudden coldness, he spoke her name, keeping his voice soft.

Her pupils dilated, then constricted again from the light. She turned her face slightly toward him.

"Is there something else?," he asked.

"Yes." Fat tears were silently slipping down her cheeks and chin but she did not move, her body suddenly tense and frozen in place like an insect pinned to a board.

"What is it?"

"I-I am ruined," she said. Her voice was flat, bled of any inflection.

"How are you ruined?"

Sephiroth thought of the torn zipper on her coat, the ripped buttons, and felt sick. What more had she had to endure? Had one of the soldiers violated her? He waited, his heart hammering with fear and impotent rage, for her answer. Aerith rolled over onto her back, squinting in the light. She held her hands up to her face, covering her nose and mouth. Tears squeezed out of the corners of her eyes and dropped noiselessly onto the white fabric of her parka. She breathed in, her delicate nostrils flaring.

"I can still smell the blood."

"Is it yours?"

"No. It's from the soldiers. I killed them." Her entire body was shaking with emotion. A sob burst from her, then another, like the bark of some tortured beast, and she mashed her hands to her mouth to stifle them.

Sephiroth stroked her hair, trying to calm her, trying to give her something to focus on other than the pain in her mind, trying to center her in reality. "Aerith, you were only trying to defend yourself. They would have killed you first if you hadn't."

"No, you don't understand."

"Then tell me." He squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. She didn't feel it. As he watched, her face went blank and numb; she was slipping back into her fugue.

"I'm here, Aerith. I hear you," he said. He had to try to call her back. He shook her lightly, stroked her arm. "Aerith."

She blinked suddenly, rapidly. When she looked at him again her eyes were clear, wild meadow green, burning into his own. She clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering. He gave her a second to gather herself.

"No, you don't understand. I _wanted_ to kill them, Sephiroth. I wanted them to suffer, and to die. Was that hate always in me; is it part of me now?" She stared at him, her heart bleeding, but she knew he was powerless to answer her. "You must be used to it," she murmured.

Sephiroth looked down on her with infinite tenderness. The corner of his mouth twitched. "No," he said. "you never really get completely used to it."

"It is new to me," she sobbed "How can you do it, deal all this…death?"

"I was made for it. It is part of me. You were made for other things. Something beautiful," he said quietly. His guilt turned in on itself. "This was never supposed to happen."

"You just don't know, what I did, the rest of it." Aerith writhed, turning her head back and forth, as if she could physically purge herself of the memory.

"Tell me," he said, "You don't have to bear it alone." His gaze was earnest, imploring her. Aerith searched him, raw and helpless. Slowly, she leaned forward and nestled against him, resting her cheek on his chest. She breathed deeply, taking in his scent, his warmth.

It took a few moments to gather her strength. The words came out at last in a rush, as if they were poison she had to expel.

"After I was captured they took me to the base and beat me some more," she began. She closed her eyes briefly, and swallowed. "I thought I would die. I was certain I would die. Then an old soldier came and took me away and locked me in an old Chocobo stable. I slept, I don't know how long." Aerith drew in her breath, then her voice grated and went thin. "Then he came back."

In her mind the key was grinding, turning slowly in the lock of her cell. The sound swelled in her ears, as if it were happening all over again. The brilliant sun shone in her eyes, her pupils constricted to tiny pinpoints, but she was swallowed in the dim gloom of the stables. She heard the snap of the door open, then the latch clamping shut behind him, steel on steel. The soldiers' steps were coming toward her, his awkward dragging step crushing the straw underneath his heavy boots. She smelt the bowl of porridge he carried, and her mouth watered. The soldier set it on the ground in front of her and she had eaten greedily, desperately. As she was finishing, out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw a smile, dark and feral, break across his face, but only for a moment. When she was done the soldier took the bowl away from her, and set it in the corner of the stall. He put his keys in the front breast pocket of his parka and snapped it shut. Aerith flinched. He squatted down on his heels in front of her and said something in a low voice, glowering dangerously from under his heavy brow. He shifted his weight, rocking back and forth on his feet, as if he was deciding something. Aerith crept away from him, alarmed. Her stomach squeezed painfully and she had a vague feeling of dread. Something bad was about to happen, she knew it. The man put a hand out to her, crooning something, his thick fingers dandling her hair and she suddenly knew what it was going to be. Even though she knew she was powerless to prevent what he was about to do, Aerith pulled her head away, in one last act of rebellion. The soldiers' face darkened; he would not be denied. Then everything happened at once.

In an explosive movement that squeezed a panicked shriek from her throat, the soldier lunged forward and seized her by her parka and crushed her back into the straw. He drove his knee down hard onto her thigh, pinning her to the ground. The old soldier was strong, much stronger than he looked. Caught off guard, with the breath knocked out of her, she scrabbled in the straw, coughing from the dust. She kicked and tried to throw him off but his grip was fast. The canvas of his jacket was crushed into her face and smelt of mildew and sweat. He panted above her, his free hand tugging at the toggles of her coat. He found the zipper and pulled.

"He held me down," Aerith said, "He was was trying to…to…he was, he would have…" She couldn't bring herself to say the words. Sephiroth's eyes met hers knowingly, wise in the horrors of the world, sad, and weary.

"I understand," he said quietly, sparing her the pain of having to speak it.

Aerith blinked, shedding tears. Residual fear and revulsion rippled through her in waves. There had been a sharp pain in her chest as the soldier had put his hand inside her coat and roughly squeezed her breast, crushing his mouth to hers. She felt his tongue, like a slick fat worm, slither inside her mouth, tasting of rotten teeth and nicotine.

"I got one hand free, "Aerith continued. "The back wall of the stable was crumbling. I found a rock, a loose piece of the wall. I hit him with it, on the side of his head, as hard as I could. It bounced off and only seemed to make him angrier. I cast a spell. It was an ice spell but I don't remember choosing it. It caught him right in the face." Aerith started to breathe faster, her tension mounting. She remembered his screaming, high pitched, mad with pain.

"His hands were around my throat and I couldn't breathe. I hit him again, on the side of his head and it…" she gulped for air, "shattered."

She remembered the sudden hot wet smell of his opened head, the awful slackness of his body. It was a small mercy that the momentum of her strike had carried him over and off of her.

"He fell over. I got to my knees. He was dead but I kept hitting him in the head with the rock." Aerith wiped the tears from her trembling chin. She didn't know what black demon had possessed her but she had kept striking, striking until there was nothing recognizable left.

"The rest is a blur," she said. "All I knew was that I had to get away. Outside the stable door there was nothing but smoke. It burned my eyes. I remember trying to get out of it. I remember how much my leg hurt, and crawling up the hill. Then I heard you call my name."

She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat and continued.

"I wanted that man more than dead, Sephiroth, I wanted him obliterated. And it was not just a wish. I did it." She looked up at him, deep into his eyes. "I am so afraid now, of myself. I don't know what I am. How could I have done these things? How was I capable of it?" She burrowed into his chest and sobbed.

"You did what you had to do, to survive," Sephiroth repeated, "The circumstances were extreme. You never should have had to endure what you did."

"No. I did much more than that. I can't…I just can't reconcile." her gaze was slipping off again, her eyes full of horror, but then she caught herself.

"You said I was meant for something beautiful. I'm not beautiful, any more. I don't know if I ever was. I don't know what I am," She put her hands before her and looked at them. There was still dried blood clotted under her nails. "How can I go to my people, how can I show myself, now that I am this?"

Sephiroth clasped her hands, enfolding them in his own so that she would not have to look at them. He wanted to fill her with promises, promise her that her people would forgive her, that all was not lost, that somehow it would all come right. But none of those things were certain. What she was feeling was not something that could be dissected out and reasoned away. He had no answers for her, and couldn't replace the innocence that had been taken from her. All he could offer her was himself, and hope that with time and patience, her mind would heal.

"You are still alive," he said. "It is the most important thing." He reached out and stroked her cheek tenderly, following the tracks of her tears with his fingertips. Aeriths' wet eyes fluttered, surprised, but she did not flinch or pull away. "Whatever end meets us, I will be with you, Aerith. I will never leave you again, unless you wish it. I am so sorry for what you have had to go through."

For a second he thought he had said too much, presumed too much in the way he touched her, as she only closed her eyes and rested her forehead against him.

"Yes. I have survived," she said grimly. Her expression was unreadable. Sephiroth wondered if he had said the right thing, or had only made things worse. Perhaps it was too little too late.

Aerith rested against him. His dark male presence was solid and reassuring. As she breathed in his light but distinct scent she felt herself floating free, washed clean of her pain, of everything. There was no more strength left within her to fight, hardly anything left to fight for. How ridiculous it all seemed to her now; her death, her rebirth, the years underground, the long trek though the arctic waste, murdering for her freedom. Yes, she was still alive, but she hardly knew why.

Eventually she felt Sephiroth sit up, but he kept the warm weight of his hand on her back. He rubbed in slow circles.

"We need to go," he said, the weight of his hand vanishing. He neatly sewed up her torn leggings and wrapped her leg using strips cut from the blanket, bracing it with spare aluminum stakes from the shelter. He replaced her boot with the utmost caution, leaving the laces loose, only lightly knotting them around the stakes to keep it on.

"I'm going outside to check the Naga. We'll be leaving in a few minutes."

Aerith nodded slightly. She was very pale.

Sephiroth unlatched the door to the shelter and stepped outside. The brilliant light scorched his eyes. Squinting, he stepped over to the Naga, and immediately scowled.

Oil and green hydraulic fluid dotted the snow under the right front shock assembly. He got down on his knees and peered up into the darkness under the protective cowling. One of the lines was cracked, a thin hairline split. It explained the stiffness that had crept into the steering over the last fifty miles. He stepped back from the bike. Now that he could see it in the daylight, it was in much worse shape than he had initially thought. It seemed as if it had been extensively repaired and rebuilt, abnormally battered for a model that had just come into production. Sephiroth fished in the panniers, coming up with half a roll of silver tape. Most of it crumbled into unusable bits when he tried to unroll it, but there was just enough left at the core for one pass around the line. It would have to hold.

Sephiroth returned to the shelter for Aerith. She hadn't moved, and her face was lined with suffering. He sat down next to her. He wanted to comfort her, somehow.

"Every hour, we're closer to Icicle Inn. We should be to the treeline by nightfall, perhaps sooner."

"Perhaps," she replied, not listening, utterly exhausted. Sephiroth frowned. She was so far gone, and her will was fading fast. She was so pale he wondered if the bleeding was worse than he thought, or if she had an electrolyte imbalance. There was nothing he could do except get her out, get them both to safety, as fast as possible.

"Come on, let's go."

Aerith sat up with difficulty and only with his help. Sephiroth gathered her into his arms and lifted her up and out of the shelter and onto the back of the bike.

After dismantling and packing the shelter back into the panniers, they were off, flying across the smooth white ground, kicking up a glittering spray of snow behind them. The engine whined perilously, but Sephiroth bent it to his will. At last, in the rosy light of a calm dusk, below them spread a wide field of twisted shapes covered in snow.

Sephiroth slowed the bike to an idle at the crest of a gently sloping hill. The engine complained and threatened to choke, but he put it in neutral and revved it to keep it running.

"Aerith, look."

She slowly raised her head and blinked the frost off of her lashes. The shapes were strange and didn't look like anything she had seen before, like great silent sentinels, gnarled and bent by the wind.

"What are they?"

"Trees. It's the beginning of the treeline. The wind makes them grow this way. We've almost made it."

Aerith watched the light shift among the contorted shapes, their deep blue shadows soft against the sparkling pink snow. She shifted uncomfortably behind him, her legs stiff and sore. The Opia had worn off many hours ago, and pain sizzled up from her broken bone up into her pelvis, pulsing in time with her heart.

"How much further for today?" Aerith asked. Her voice was raspy and weak. She was desperate for a drink of water.

Sephiroth turned so that she could hear him better, as well as get a look at how she was doing. "I'd like to go another hour, until nightfall. Every bit helps. If we push hard we might be able to make it to Icicle Inn by sometime tomorrow."

Aerith nodded and settled herself onto his back. As they travelled further south the trees grew thicker and straighter and soon they found themselves in a deep valley covered in a dense conifer forest. The tangled tree roots and heavy snowfall made it slow going and, with the smell of burning coolant beginning to waft from the cooling fins of the Naga, they were forced to stop.

"Drink this," Sephiroth said, handing Aerith a pressed tin cup full of hot liquid. Outside, snow was whispering on the plastic sheeting of the shelter. Aerith held the cup and sniffed at it.

"Will this help the pain?"

"No. I wish it did. It's just spruce needles. For vitamins. It's all that's around."

She took a sip, wrinkled her nose. "It tastes horrible."

"I made it; if it tasted good, you would worry." he said, joking lightly. She didn't respond, only stared balefully into the pale green contents of the cup. Sephiroth tried to take comfort that at least she was strong enough to drink on her own, mentally present enough to speak. "Try to drink as much as you can, a little at a time."

"Do we have anything to eat?"

"No."

Aerith sighed and sipped a little more tea, disinclined to speak. The spacey, faraway look was slowly creeping back into her eyes.

"Tomorrow will be a steady climb," he said, snapping her back to the present. She even attempted to look at him as he was speaking. "We're close to the northern edge of the Great Glacier."

"Are we?" she said, her face slack and blank. She finished the remainder of the tea and handed the cup back to him, lying back slowly onto the open sleeping bag.

"I'm very tired." Casting a glance at him to see that he understood her, she carefully turned on her side and thrust her hands between her knees to keep them warm. Sephiroth drank two cups of tea by himself in the dark, then lay down beside her. Sleep came almost instantly, deep and dreamless.

When he woke, Aerith was crying.

Alarmed, Sephiroth sat up, bumping the crown of his head on the low roof. "What's wrong, what's wrong?" It was the middle of the night and completely dark. In the soft tangle of her coat and sleeping bag he felt for her shoulder, but brushed the skin of her neck instead. Her skin was hot and dewy with sweat, her pulse thrumming. "Are you sick?" he asked, afraid for her answer.

"No," she sniffed, "It's nothing, just a nightmare."

"Will you be alright?"

"I don't want to go back to sleep." Her voice shook with fear.

"What do you want to do?"

"Can we go, leave this place?"

"We can, if you're rested. Do you think you can make it?"

"I think so."

Half asleep, his fingers numb, Sephiroth felt for the flap of the shelter and pulled himself outside. The night was bitter cold, the stars blazing in the small patch of black sky visible between the snowy treetops. The Naga took two tries to start, the engine hoarse and whining.

The sun rose as they travelled, wheeled into a sky of patchy clouds, and eventually began to set again. Every few hours Sephiroth stopped to rest, but Aerith urgently pressed them on. Fearful she was truly fading, with the death-fear rising in her, Sephiroth did as he was bid. The day faded into night as they tracked and backtracked, challenged by the jagged ice of the glacier and the steep incline. Clouds shrouded the moon and blotted out the stars, making the blackness absolute. Sephiroth hunched over the handlebars of the bike, frozen and aching. From the edges of his peripheral vision he kept seeing something moving, something dark leaping out in front of the bike, but every time he looked or blinked, it vanished. He was hallucinating, he realized, from exhaustion, but he could not, must not stop.

Finally, with the reserve tank on fumes and the screaming engine of Naga spitting oil and beginning to smoke, they found their way onto a broad flat expanse of deep snow that lead up to the edge of a rocky plateau. At the very top, just visible in the pearly haze of an early morning sky, shone the golden lights of Icicle Inn.


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

Sephiroth forced the Naga up the snowy hillside. He was too exhausted to think; he only knew he must keep moving. The engine fought him the entire way, shuddering like a sick dog as the gears within it clashed in angry bursts. The pines crept past, towering over them in the murky predawn.

The silence and the darkness around them seemed to be gathering like a physical force, the snow and the endless trees swallowing every sound. Sephiroth raised his head. A glance at the bikes' flickering display told him that it was nearing half past one in the morning. Dense mist swaddled the landscape and Sephiroth could only find his way moment by moment. Several miles off yet, the lights of the village shimmered in the distance like a mirage, out of reach and unattainable.

Through the haze of his fatigue, Sephiroth dimly perceived that the Naga was continuing to lose power, no matter how he tried to compensate. Against his back Aerith shivered miserably. Whatever it took, he must make it to the Inn. Anxious to cover more ground, Sephiroth accelerated, kicking the bike into a higher gear. The engine stuttered then complied, making it up the last incline with difficulty. It was a mile before the road leveled at last, broadening as it snaked its way toward the center of town. One by one, the tracks of vehicles long since past joined their own, marring the icy surface of the road. The tires of the bike thudded rhythmically over the deep ruts, lulling Sephiroth into a bleary half sleep. His eyes scanned the terrain ahead, barely cognizant of what he was seeing, his hands moving automatically. It seemed endless, a gray ribbon of frozen mud hemmed in on either side with snowdrifts and the harsh vertical lines of the trees. Long minutes slipped by as they made their slow progress.

Halfway to Icicle Inn, the engine of the Naga unexpectedly pitched higher. With increasing desperation, Sephiroth listened, hoping it would kick down, but it would not. To his horror it kept climbing, higher and higher and higher. He backed completely off the accelerator, but it was too late. With a scream of shearing metal, the handlebars of the bike jackknifed, and they were sliding on the icy road, spinning recklessly out of control. They made two complete revolutions before the edges of the tires caught on the jagged edge of a tire track and skidded them sideways. The force nearly pitched them over, but Sephiroth corrected just in time to keep them upright.

Instantly awake, his heart leaping in his throat, Sephiroth wrestled the machine to a stop in an embankment of dirty snow along the side of the road. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself, then leaned forward to survey the damage. The light was poor but it was just enough to see that the crankcase was cracked, with the twisted remains of a piston rod jutting out of it. The rest of the Naga's remaining fluids, a syrupy mixture of battery acid, coolant, and oil, drooled out onto the snow. The lights on the front panel dimmed and the power failed, leaving them in near total darkness. Sephiroth sat back. He hadn't enough energy to be angry.

"Aerith, are you alright?," he asked. He stared at the lights in the distance. He felt Aerith raise her head, her grip relax. Her fingers had dug into his chest so tightly he was sure she had drawn blood. She did not answer.

Sephiroth got off of the bike. Bright knives of pain stabbed up through his boots as his frostbitten feet took his weight. Aerith hunched forward, clawing her hands into the cracked leather of the seat. She rocked forward and back, half mad with pain and starvation.

"What happened? Why aren't we moving?"

"The bike's thrown a rod."

"Can you fix it?"

"No."

"No," she echoed. Her hands went to her head, dug in on either side, unable to process the possibility. Blackness was all around her now, threatening to overcome her at any moment. She leaned forward until her forehead touched the seat in front of her.

"No, no, no!" She beat her head against the leather, beyond despair.

"Stop it, right now." Sephiroth hissed at her. He put a firm hand on her back to restrain her. Aerith didn't answer or attempt to fight him, but only whimpered in helpless frustration, slumped loosely in a heap against the handlebars.

His face dead and grim, Sephiroth reached over her and clicked the bike into neutral. He braced his hands on the grips and gave the bike a forward shove. Yes, thank whatever deities were listening, it would still roll. Aerith lifted her head, her eyes bleary. Sephiroth saw them only as a wet glitter in the dark night.

"Hold on," he said to her, his gaze fixed sharp and unwavering on the road in front of them. With every muscle screaming, Sephiroth put one foot in front of the other and continued on.

As he trudged his thoughts ran ahead of him, his previous memories of this place overlaying the landscape like a veil. He remembered Icicle Inn as being nothing more than a sleepy resort town, the population evenly split between low budget tourists, transient loggers and trappers, or those born there, too young or too old to leave for something better. The outline of the wooden workers' cottages, their oil lanterns glimmering faintly in the deep shadows of the trees, certainly seemed familiar. As he passed them he thought he smelt the faint odor of woodsmoke, warm and comforting.

An hour and a half later, hoarse from the cold and cursing each tortuous step, he reached the gatehouse that delineated the outer border of town from the wilds of the Glacier. The gates were wide open and from the amount of snow piled up against their shaggy sides, seemed to have been that way for months, if not years. There was a fat man in a straining down parka stationed inside the gatehouse, his helmet pushed down over his eyes. He was fast asleep and the crunching of the Naga's tires on the brittle frost did not wake him. As Sephiroth passed through, wending his way onto the main boulevard he could see that many changes had, in fact, come to the town. Some of the original wooden structures remained, many in the same places he remembered, but there had been enough new construction in his absence so that the entire character of the town had changed.

The new buildings were made of grey and white stone, done in a highly ornamented style he could not place. Shops lined the streets, their dark windows full of luxury goods. Pots of elaborately clipped and trained Frostbloom stood on either side of many of the doorways, and the streets were scrupulously clean and studded with gas streetlamps. All of it was a long way from the close and cluttered hamlet he remembered, piled with bales of pelts and smelling of whale oil, Chocobo dung, and fresh cut logs. Somehow, he thought as he pushed the bike through the silent streets, Icicle Inn had become prosperous, though it wasn't immediately apparent how.

The muscles in his back spasmed, and he stopped in the yellow pool of light under a streetlamp. Aerith was still prostrate on the seat of the bike, clinging on with chapped, frost-reddened hands. He wouldn't stop long, just enough to get his bearings. A tremor passed through him and he knew that he himself hadn't much strength left to waste. Sephiroth looked around. He was standing at the corner of what looked like a market square. It was utterly deserted. A black cat furtively crossed the street at the opposite end, then ducked behind the fluted columns of an iron colonnade and disappeared. From a stable somewhere close by he heard the musical whickering of Chocobos, sighing in their sleep.

His tired eyes burning, Sephiroth scanned the sharply pitched rooftops, searching for the tower of the Inn he remembered, the one that had lent this town its name. He looked from horizon to horizon, then back again. The skyline had changed so dramatically he doubted he would even be able to see the original structure if it was still standing. A cluster of towers rose in the east, the tallest thing he could see in any direction. They were magnificently decorated with scaled slate shingles and faced with the same light stone as everything else, but the numerous windows and balconies on all sides of the structure gave it away as something other than a palace or cathedral. Sephiroth judged the distance between it and himself. Its location aligned roughly with an offshoot of the main thoroughfare, which seemed correct. It had to be the Inn.

Aerith groaned weakly as he pushed the bike toward the junction where the main road divided, the tires bumping over the tidy cobblestones. Sephiroth patted her. She didn't respond, and he moved on. His legs shaking, he pushed the crippled Naga around the corner of the junction. The building he was seeking was still at the far end of the street, but he could see it in its entirety now, the arched canopy of wrought iron and beveled glass over the front entry lit up in a wreath of glorious, impossible light. Pushing through his pain and exhaustion, Sephiroth quickened his pace, growing more and more heartened with every step. It was the Inn. They had arrived, at last.

Like almost everything else in the town, it had changed greatly from what he remembered. What had been only a rustic wooden building of only four or five floors had now become a small city of grey-white stone. The façade was a forest of arches and columns, with high glass windows, an incredible luxury in the frigid climate, set into it at regular intervals. A semi circular driveway lead up to the main entrance from the road, lined with a thick Frostbloom hedge and a spiked iron fence. Only the front doors were the same, the warm golden wood now bound in black iron tracery in a design that echoed the design in the fence. A pair of polished copper braziers burned on either side of the entryway, the flames low and smoldering. Sephiroth dragged the bike alongside one of them, and put down the kickstand. The heat washed over him like a warm wave and Sephiroth felt his entire body begin to relax, dilating with relief.

He bent over Aerith. She appeared to be unconscious.

"We're here," he said, shaking her. When she didn't respond, he shook her again, and she made a little sound in her throat but didn't seem to have the strength to rise. Eager to get her in out of the cold, he sat her up, allowing her to drape against his chest as she slowly came to her senses. Feeling the warmth from the braziers, Aerith opened her eyes, disoriented. She squinted in the glittering light.

"Wake up, Aerith. We're at the Inn. Come on, I'll help you inside," Sephiroth said to her. She nodded. Bracing herself with her hands, Aerith slid down off the seat of the bike, resting her weight on her good leg. Her muscles were weak and hardly seemed able to support her. She seemed ready to faint.

"Can you make it if you lean on me, or should I carry you?"

"No, just leave me alone." Aerith said, rousing suddenly, but she wasn't thinking clearly and didn't even seem to recognize who he was. Before Sephiroth could stop her she took a single hobbling step forward, to get away from him. The pain buckled her knees, and she cried out, dropping to the ground. Sephiroth seized her and gathered her up in his arms. She was shaking, crying, out of her mind.

"It hurts so much…"

"Just be still. We'll get you help soon," he murmured, as he carried her the last few meters. As he approached the imposing entryway, the heavy doors were flung open by a weary footman, the collar of his fur trimmed coat swinging around his scrawny neck. Sephiroth passed by too quickly to read too much into the shocked expression that leapt into his face as he saw them.

"Sir, can I help you sir?" the man stammered, bounding fearfully at Sephiroth's elbow as he continued his rapid pace toward the front desk. His eyes went from Aeriths' pained face, to the aluminum stakes lashed on either side of her boot, to the blood and soot on her parka, and back again.

"Call a doctor, immediately. Tell them she's got a compound fibular fracture, and it's been unset for three days." Sephiroth ordered.

"Yes, sir" the man gulped, "right away." He vanished into an alcove, setting its cut velvet curtains swinging.

Sephiroth crossed the wide expanse of the lobby, his footsteps muffled on the thick carpet. The space was a sea of red and gold, filled with groupings of gilded furniture and palms potted in expensive porcelain. Crystal chandeliers floated overhead, their lamps burning low. A sweeping staircase with stone balusters dominated the center of the room, vaulting upward into open galleries four stories high.

Sephiroth scanned, found the check in area. The front desk was an elegant mahogany arc, deeply carved with a crest he didn't recognize. He laid Aerith down on the closest sofa and stepped up to the desk. There was no one there, and no one in the back that he could see. A silver bell sat on the marble countertop. He depressed the button on the top of it and it answered with a single cheerful note that, as the coda to the many months of their long ordeal, struck him as utterly absurd.

Half asleep on his feet, Sephiroth stood and waited, soaking in the wonderful sensation of breathing in warm air. He was considering ringing the bell a second time when a middle aged night manager, formally dressed with dark slicked back hair, appeared from the back room. Sephiroth watched as the look on his face shifted, in a flash, from tired annoyance to disguised fear as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. The man stopped short, keeping well back from the counter. Whatever he had been expecting, being summoned to the desk at this hour, it certainly wasn't this.

"If you're here for a room, Sir, there aren't any. We're hosting a very important event and are completely booked. You might try the Trapper's Lodge on the south end of town." He said, his voice strained. He was trying very hard to sound unshakeable in the face of a man who towered over him by three quarters of a foot.

Before Sephiroth could begin to argue, a phone on the desk trilled and the manager snapped it up, keeping his gaze firmly leveled at him. There was a long silence. "Yes, yes I see," he said into it, finally, his voice tinged with irritably. He set down the receiver of the phone with a sharp click. "Our footman has informed me that he has called a physician for your companion. He should arrive in an hour or two."

As the managers' apprising gaze flickered over him, touching nervously on his pale hair and strange eyes, on Masamune's hilt, across the dirt and bloodstains on his parka, Sephiroth wondered what he must look like to him or, worse yet, how he smelled. Perhaps he had suspicions he was about to be robbed, thinking him a mercenary or god knew what.

"I'm not here for just a room," Sephiroth said, narrowing his eyes. "I want Rufus ShinRa's suite."

The President had kept a suite at the best hotels in nearly every city on the planet, though the rumor was that he used them more for housing his favorite courtesans than for use when he travelled. Sephiroth had memorized the list of all their locations years ago, although he had never actually been inside one. Given how much had changed in the town, and within the Inn itself, he prayed that it was still here.

The manager's eyes shifted, just for a second, and although his face remained stony, Sephiroth could almost watch his demeanor change as he quickly reassessed who he was dealing with.

The manager pursed his lips. "You are affiliated with ShinRa?"

"Yes. I am authorized to utilize the suite, should I require it. Which, as it should be obvious, I do."

"And you are?"

Sephiroth tried to think through the exhausted haze that clouded his mind. It seemed the manager did not recognize him. He could be anyone.

"A contractor, an independent contractor; we've just returned from a very critical mission," Sephiroth lied, preparing to give a false name if it came to it.

The manager was silent for a moment. Sephiroth could sense that he wanted to probe him further, but decorum prevented it. Technically no one but the president or the direct parties involved should have known about the existence of the rooms. The manager was prepared to hedge his bets. At any rate, ShinRa would pay, and handsomely.

"The suite has been unoccupied for quite some time," the manager said finally, with an air of guarded deference. "It will take some time to prepare, Sir." He almost bowed.

Sephiroth rubbed his weary eyes, relieved beyond measure.

"We'd like to go there now. It doesn't matter if it's ready or not."

The manager was visibly taken aback. "Sir?"

Sephiroth rubbed his eyes harder and put his hands down on the edge of the desk. As ridiculous as it seemed after everything he had been through, he had to remember that he was back in society now, with all of its nuanced rules. He was no longer in the wilds. This was a different sort of man he was dealing with and brute force wouldn't serve. He had best remember his etiquette. Sephiroth softened his voice.

"We've travelled many, many miles. How long? For the absolute bare minimum," Sephiroth said.

"We'll have it ready before the doctor arrives. In the meantime, we'll do everything we can to make you more comfortable." The manager pressed some buttons on the intercom in front of him and waited. Behind Sephiroths' back, Aerith whimpered in delirious agony, pressing her face into the tufted velvet of the sofa. A moment later a steward appeared at the top of the stairs, descended them, and approached the desk. His face was drawn, and he seemed irritated at being disturbed, but as he came closer, his severe expression softened.

"Take these guests to the ground floor staging lounge," the manager said.

"Certainly," the steward said and turned to Sephiroth. He cast a concerned and frightened glance in Aerith's direction. "Please come with me." The stewards' lips were thin, and he pressed them thinner, not sure exactly what to do in such an extreme situation. He fidgeted nervously. "Do you need any assistance, with your companion?"

"No. The doctor is coming." Sephiroth sat down next to her on the edge of the sofa. Aeriths' breathing was quick and there was a sheen of sweat on her forehead. He took off her scarf and loosened her parka. Aerith swatted at him weakly with one hand, murmuring unintelligibly. She was limp when he lifted her, her legs dangling in her heavy boots.

The steward led the way and Sephiroth followed, into a warren of hallways and passages used only by the staff.

"What's wrong with her?" The steward asked cautiously.

"Her leg is badly broken. It was too complex to set in the field. It's probably infected now." Sephiroth said, speaking slowly. Everything seemed like a dream, as if he were moving and speaking a million miles away. The steward took a left turn, down a hallway nearly identical to the first. Halfway down he stopped in front of a plain paneled door. He pulled out a ring of silver keys, flipping through them to find the right one.

"Here we are," he said, unlocking the door and holding it open for them to pass. The steward stepped in after them and turned up the gaslamps, revealing a sitting room furnished in striped velvet furniture in varying shades of green, arranged in front of a black marble fireplace. A busy wallpaper in gilt and brown and green, covered the walls.

"There's a chaise in the corner, if you want to use that," said the steward.

Moving as if undersea, Sephiroth walked over to it and laid her down. Mounded with soft pillows, the chaise was as wide and soft as a bed. All he wanted to do was lie down next to her and rest. Instead he dragged one of the winged armchairs over next to it and sat, keeping watch over her.

The steward tried not to stare at them but hid it poorly. It was already warm in the room but he went over to the fireplace and began to build a fire in the empty grate, glancing over at them in nervous bursts.

"Where did you come from, if you don't mind me asking?"

"The Northern Crater."

"Are you adventurers?"

"You might say that."

"We've never had adventurers at the Inn before," the steward said, but Sephiroth was barely listening, and didn't care enough to correct him.

Sephiroth watched Aerith as she breathed, in, breathed out. He sighed tightly. As anxious as he was for him to arrive, the doctor would have questions for him, too. Everyone would, from this point on. As long as it had only been the two of them, Aerith and him could pretend that the past, what they were, didn't matter. It was impossible to know what they were coming into now, or the ways things would change as they reentered society. ShinRa would certainly be interested to know that they were both alive, and certainly for no benevolent purpose. But he couldn't think of all of that now, not tonight. For now all they needed was food, rest, and time to recover. Sephiroth prayed they would be given at least that much.

The steward, having finished with the fire, was standing in the doorway, looking at him. "I'll return shortly, sir," he said, bowing slightly. Sephiroth nodded at him and he disappeared.

Aerith stirred, turning stiffly over onto her side to face him. Her parka rubbed sooty streaks onto the fine upholstery. The warmth of the room seemed to be reviving and centering her; the color had come back into her face and she seemed to move with slightly less pain. Sephiroth let his head lean against the wing of the armchair. He would rest his eyes, just for a moment…

The next thing he knew, the steward was standing over him, glassware clinking on the heavily laden tray in his hands. A young woman in neatly pleated whites and a short chef's toque, the pastry chef, stood behind him, carrying a small basket wrapped in a crisp damask napkin.

"I've brought you some refreshments," the steward said, setting the tray down on top of the low table in front of them. It carried a pair of cut glass decanters of water and wine, glasses, and a few dishes covered with silver lids.

The pastry chef, stepped forward. There was a brush of flour across her nose. She looked back and forth between Sephiroth and Aerith, her soft face full of compassion. "And these are for you, too. They've just come out of the oven. I've made them myself. I hope you like them." She took the napkin off the basket to reveal a selection of croissants; chocolate, butter, almond. She held the basket out to him and Sephiroth took it, the warmth radiating into his hands. The warm rich smell of yeast and butter rose into the air and his mouth watered.

"Thank you."

"You're certainly welcome, sir. We'll leave you now, but just use the bell pull should you require anything at all."

Sephiroth nodded and looked away, unused to the kindness of strangers. They left, the young woman casting a concerned glance over her shoulder just before she pulled the door closed behind her.

He turned to Aerith. Her eyes were open now, but her gaze was wandering and unfocused. He called her name, and she turned her head toward him. She was breathing through her teeth.

"Aerith? Can you sit up? They've brought us food."

She nodded and made a feeble attempt to rise. Sephiroth gripped her by her elbow and helped her up, letting her legs dangle off the side of the chaise. Dizzy from the effort, she looked at the tray before her with disbelief, then, with shaking hands, unfolded the crisp white napkin and draped it over her lap. She took a croissant from the basket and broke it in half, bit it, chewed. She took three more bites, slowly but with increasing pleasure.

"This is the most wonderful thing I've ever tasted in my life," Aerith sighed, her voice gravelly. Even so, she only ate half, leaving the rest.

Sephiroth nodded, finishing his own. He poured water for both of them then lifted the lids off of the dishes, revealing a glistening fruit salad, cutlets in a savory sauce, and toasted slices of a crusty round bread topped with sautéed mushrooms and melted cheese. Aerith took a few bites of the fruit salad, before refusing anything more.

"I can't," she said, "I need to lie down."

Sephiroth took away her half eaten croissant, wrapping it up in the napkin and putting in his pocket. "It's best not to rush it," he said, his forehead furrowed with unease. He consoled himself that at least she had been able to eat something. Aerith settled herself back down on the chaise and dropped immediately into a deep dreamless sleep.

He was just finishing off the last of the food when the steward reentered and informed him that the doctor had arrived and was waiting for them in the suite. Sephiroth thanked him, dropping a small emerald into his hand, for his trouble. The steward bowed, and protested that he was only doing his job. Blushing and flustered, he slipped the gem into his waistcoat pocket.

"This way, please," he said, gesturing toward the door. Sephiroth gathered Aerith into his arms for the last time, to carry her to help and safety.

"This is your private elevator," the steward said, slipping a silver passcard into the slot at the side of the doors. "We're in the South tower. The suite is the top floor."

Sephiroth nodded, the weight of Aerith's head heavy on his shoulder. They stepped inside, and he leaned against the wall as they smoothly ascended.

He had been expecting opulence; Rufus would have done with nothing less, but when the doors slid open onto the circular vista of the suite's foyer, he had to concede to the Presidents' exquisite taste. Even dim and half shuttered, with sheets over most of the furniture and swaddling the chandelier, he could sense the elegance and harmony in its proportions and in the graceful vault of the roof. Sephiroth stepped out into the room, his footsteps echoing loudly on the patterned marble floor. There were a set of high double doors to his right, which were ajar, leaking a shaft of yellow light across the floor and onto his boots.

"I apologize for the darkness," the steward said, leading him onward, "We've readied the bedchamber and the bath enough to be serviceable, but the other areas will be attended to tomorrow at the earliest convenience." The steward held the door open for him "Right through here, please."

Sephiroth entered the vast warm room. A sitting area clustered around a fireplace on one side and a high, elaborately draped canopy bed on the other. Directly across from the entryway was an open arch, closed off by heavy draperies.

The doctor and his assistant got up from the sofa in front of the fire and turned to look at them as soon as they entered. The doctor was a short, immaculately dressed man with gray, closely cropped hair. A golden topaz glittered in the textured silk cravat at his neck, and his goatee, also shot with gray, was trimmed to a sharp point.

"Is this the patient?" the doctor asked, looking at Aeriths' slack face. His voice was stern, but as measured and disciplined as the rest of him. "Put her on the bed." he said, although Sephiroth was already on his way. The doctors' tired looking assistant, a prim young man in a starched labcoat, his grandson perhaps, picked up a pair of cases from the floor and they approached the bedside together.

The doctor wasted no time, rolling up his sleeves and checking Aerith's pulse while his assistant began unpacking the bags.

"Do you have any other clothes she can wear, a dressing gown, or something loose?"

"I'll see what I can find," Sephiroth said, although he was loathe to leave her. He tried the wardrobe he saw in one corner of the room but it was empty. There were a pair of doors leading off to the right; one led to the bath, but the other led to a narrow dressing room, lined with drawers and cupboards for hanging clothes. He stepped inside, feeling for the switch, found it. The alabaster sconces on the walls illuminated, still wrapped in muslin. Sephiroth started. A large mirror faced him, its silvery surface covered in dust. It reflected back the image of a tall gaunt figure, draped in ripped snowpants, a filthy parka hanging on its emaciated frame. Sephiroth froze, but only for a second. Other than the blurry reflection in the pools at the Northern Crater, he had not seen his own image in years. He took a step closer. The figure seemed alien. He extended a hand toward the smooth glass surface of the mirror, watching the wasted muscles shift under his skin as he lightly drew a line in the dust. He swallowed hard, then turned away.

Sephiroth pulled open the cupboards and searched through the drawers. He riffled through Rufus's old shirts and suits and the lacy froth of his mistress's lingerie, the faint perfume of their owners rising from them in turns. It was disconcerting, unearthing the strata of another life, especially of a man he knew, and as he searched he found out more about Rufus's life and his tastes in five minutes than he had ever known in his lifetime of dealing with him. He dug deeper, looking for any article of womens' clothing appropriate for Aerith to wear, but everything he touched was too sheer, too insubstantial, or too frankly erotic. Finally, hanging in the back of a closet behind one of Rufus's silver suit jackets, he found a red-orange silk dressing gown, its long ruffled hem puddling on the floor. It would have to do.

When he returned, clutching the bundle of coral colored silk before him uncomfortably like an offering, the doctor had already undone the makeshift splint on Aerith's leg and was expertly cutting open her leggings along the line Sephiroth had so carefully stitched. They had attached a pair of electrodes to the sides of her forehead, which fed back to a small handheld device the assistant was monitoring.

The doctor slit the cloth of Aerith's leggings up to her thigh and peeled it back. Underneath, the skin of her lower leg was bright red and angry, the weeping skin tight. The doctor lightly palpated the area adjacent to the break and Aerith screamed and tried to rise, to get away.

"Shh, sh,sh," the doctor said, pressing her back onto the bed. "I'm sorry. We won't do that again."

"It's compartment syndrome," he said to no one in particular, as if confirming his own diagnosis. "Start an IV; broad spectrum antibiotics, and steroids to bring down this swelling." he said to the assistant. Sephiroth put the dressing gown down on the edge of the bed, wavering with fatigue. The doctor eyed him, his gaze as clear and intense as a hawks'.

"We will have to operate, relieve the pressure and piece the bone back together."

"Yes," Sephiroth said. The assistant had already unwrapped a sterile paper sheet and positioning it under Aerith's leg.

"It will take some time. Perhaps you would like to go sit down." It was not a suggestion.

Sephiroth bristled at being patronized, but, casting a concerned glance at Aerith and the livid redness of her broken leg, did as he was bid.

"She won't be in any pain," the doctor assured him.

The sofa in front of the fire was upholstered in a deep red silk velvet and stuffed with horsehair and featherdown. It was extremely comfortable. He leaned back, thinking that Aerith was in good hands, the best that could be managed. The fleeting thought crossed his mind that perhaps he should take off his boots, so as not to damage the expensive carpet. The next thing he knew someone was speaking to him.

"Sir? Sir?" It was the assistant. Sephiroth blinked himself awake and sat up. The servants or someone had brought in a tray of coffee, fruit, and pastries and had set it on the low table in front of him. The curtain that covered the archway he had seen when he had first come in had been drawn back and through it he could see a glassed in colonnade and a wall of windows leading further around the tower to a space beyond. The sky glowed warmly in shades of red and gold, just a few minutes before sunrise.

"How is she?" Sephiroth asked, getting to his feet.

"She's fine, still sleeping off the anesthetic. Dr. Hathaway will apprise you of the details."

The doctor was not immediately apparent. Sephiroth approached the bedside. Aerith was wrapped in the dressing gown, breathing easily. Her wounded leg was encased in a fearsome looking metal immobilizer, elevated on a stack of pillows. Her discarded clothing was folded neatly in a pile on the floor.

"She'll have to wear that immobilizer for four to six weeks, while the bone heals," the doctor said, coming out of the bathroom, drying his hands on a snow white towel.

Sephiroth remained mute, wondering why the doctor hadn't simply healed her. He thought back to the soldiers he had fought at the Nordkaat base. They hadn't cast either, but he didn't notice it at the time. Sephrioth looked down at Aerith, then out at the lightening sky. Perhaps magic was even more of a rarity in the world than it had been. Just as Hojo had said; someday science would rule all.

"Let's look at the scans. We have a lot to talk about," the doctor said ominously. He gestured toward the sitting area. They sat together and the doctor handed him a smooth silver tablet. Ghostly x-ray images of Aerith's shattered fibula were projected on it. He doctor poured coffee for himself into an elegant porcelain cup as Sephiroth looked.

"As you can see, this was a very challenging break, with a lot of soft tissue damage. She was bleeding under the fascia, which was building up a great deal of pressure in the lateral compartment. These sharp edges of the bone, here," He tapped the display and the dark squiggles of her branching blood vessels overlaid the image. "were pushed right up against the peroneal artery. They were very difficult to realign without puncturing that artery, even in open surgery. I'm glad you didn't try to set it yourself."

"As am I," Sephiroth breathed.

"But what most concerns me is this." The doctor made a swooping sigil on the surface of the tablet and selected a different application. An ultrasound image of a transverse section of a heart, Aerith's heart, fluttered on the screen. The doctor touched it and it stopped suddenly, in mid beat. The stillness made Sephiroth catch his breath, even though it was only an image.

"Here." The doctor indicated the thin outer wall of her left ventricle. "you can see by the lightness that the muscle is quite wasted. In her present condition, coupled with her malnutrition and electrolyte imbalance, I feel she is at a high risk for a significant cardiac event. We'll have to monitor her very closely for the next several weeks until she stabilizes."

Sephiroth nodded and set the tablet down on the table in front of him.

"Thank you," he said simply.

The doctor sipped his coffee. "You need to be examined as well. You're likely to present similar issues."

Sephiroth scowled, feeling his ancient distrust of medical personnel rising to the fore. He wanted to explain that he and Aerith were quite dissimilar, but it was too complicated of a story to even know where to begin.

"If you feel it is absolutely necessary."

"I do. It appears that you both have been through quite an ordeal."

"Yes." Sephiroth was going to leave it at that, but something compelled him to keep speaking. "We've come overland from the Northern Crater. We were attacked by NordKaats on the last leg of the journey, which was where my companion was injured."

"Overland?," the doctor echoed, eyebrows raised over his coffee cup.

"Yes. For nine-tenths of the way, on foot."

The doctor looked at him strangely, but it was impossible to tell if he was impressed, shocked, or thought he was lying. He set his cup down in its platinum rimmed saucer.

"I will be back late this afternoon to check on your companion. I'll examine you then. I suggest you get as much rest as you can and eat something. Moderately." He rose, nodded briskly to his assistant, who handed him his coat and hat, and stalked out of the room. A few seconds later Sephiroth heard the elevator doors close behind them, and they were alone.

For a moment he sat with his head in his hands, dazed at everything that had happened in the space of the last twenty four hours. He stared at the firelight dancing on the carpet. It was such a beautiful thing, he thought, to have come this far, to all of this. Eventually he reached down and unlaced his boots, tugging at the tough laces. He pulled them off, one at a time, then peeled off his socks, stiff and black with grime. He balled them up and stuffed them inside his boots. Holding the whole lot at arm's length, he carried it out to the foyer, dropping it outside the door. The maids would take it, along with the rest of the garbage.

Aerith. He padded back inside and crossed the wide expanse of the room to stand next to her. Her hands were folded across her belly and he picked one up, cradling it lightly in his own. Her fingers were cold and slightly clammy. He looked at her leg, trapped in its cage, still yellow with surgical disinfectant, the three incision sites neatly sewn with tiny, precise stitches. Sephiroth closed his eyes and the healing spell came from within him like a song, strong and sure. He watched as the magic worked; the incisions sealing themselves. The stitches powdered away, leaving only thin pink lines on her slender calf, the swelling receding instantly. In his minds' eye he pictured the bone, now correctly aligned, woven together, strong. He cast one more spell, just to be certain, then removed the immobilizer. As soon as she was free of it, Aerith mumbled something in her sleep and turned over, twisting herself luxuriously in the sheets. She sighed then stretched, wiggling her toes. Certainly the doctor would have questions when he came tomorrow, Sephiroth thought, but there was no sense in having her suffer any more than she had to for the sake of not arousing suspicion. Let him wonder.

Satisfied that all was well at last, Sephiroth turned to his own needs. He made his way back into the dressing room and considered the set of pyjamas he had set aside. The shirt and pants were ridiculously short in the arms and legs, and of a blindingly shiny gray silk, but at least they were clean. Sephiroth stripped off his worn and dirty clothes and pulled the pyjamas on. The fabric was light and ineffably soft against his skin, nearly insubstantial. After the many heavy layers he was used to wearing for so many month, he felt oddly naked, like a snail without its shell.

Sephiroth turned off the light and padded back into the main room, his step heavy. It was strange, dressing in Rufus's old clothes, occupying his rooms. Sephiroth's mind wandered to the clothing he had found, the artifacts left by Rufus's courtesan, and he imagined what it would be like, to be a man like that, undisciplined and uncaring, freely indulging every whim and pleasure. Would it really be so bad, he wondered, to lose control, even a little? He looked at Aerith, wrapped in silk, asleep in the plush ornate bed. He knew what he wanted, as well as the answer he must accept.

Sephiroth took a step toward her and leaned heavily against the carved corner post of the bed. The rose-pink light of the rising sun filtered through the windows from the colonnade and streamed into the room, warm on his skin. He pulled the blonde mink throw from the foot of the bed and brought it back to the couch, where he slept, bathed in the light of a new born day.


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30

"Will you be quiet?" a feminine voice hissed from somewhere nearby, vainly attempting to shout in a whisper. "you're making enough noise to wake the dead. If you've finished the valet's quarters you can help Greta with the conservatory windows."

Aerith heard footsteps pass nearby and then the slow swish of a heavy drapery. Still groggy, she turned over onto her belly and stretched her stiff aching limbs. The sheets were deliciously soft and cool on her bare legs and the fluffy weight of the coverlet that surrounded her was profoundly comforting. She rested for a few more moments, hearing muffled voices somewhere in the distance, then turned onto her side and opened her eyes. Aerith sat up slowly, looking at the pleated vault of the canopy above, the carvings on the bedposts, then out at the expanse around her. After so many years spent underground and in the arctic waste seeing nothing but endless vistas of gray and white or the shadowy gloom of the caverns, the deeply saturated colors of the room; jewel tones of purple, mulberry, and wine, met her gaze like a soothing balm. She considered the elegant lines of the furniture, the vases of flowers, the golden clock ticking quietly on the marble mantle. There must have some mistake, she thought blearily, this place, this room, belonged to someone wealthy, a countess perhaps, not to someone like her.

The inside of her right arm twinged. A length of white gauze was wrapped around her elbow. Curious, she peeled back one corner and peered inside. A small dark dot of dried blood and a shallow bruise marked the vein on the inside of her arm. She replaced the gauze and pressed it with her thumb, felt it sting. What had happened?

Vague memories slid across her mind; the cold burning in her lungs, the arched leg of a gilded sofa, a strangers' rich voice, a flash of intense crushing pain, then the blank silence of a dreamless sleep. Her arms shook from supporting her weight and she leaned back, resting against the pillows, her cheek against the embroidery. She took a few heavy breaths, taking in the delicate silver tracery on the ceiling, the softly shimmering silk on the walls. This was truly the most magnificent place she had ever been in, more beautiful than she had ever seen. And somehow, it was hers. For a moment she felt overwhelmed, a little frightened. She looked across the huge space and a spur of panic passed through her. Where was Sephiroth? It was all so foreign, too big, too grand, but the thought soon evaporated, replaced by the gnawing rumble in her gut and a wave of dizziness. She desperately needed something to eat. Across the room, she caught sight of a silver tea service sitting on a low marble topped table in front of the fireplace. A velvet sofa and a pair of chairs surrounded it. The distance between her and it seemed a vast expanse of patterned carpet. Could she walk?

Her leg, she suddenly realized, hadn't hurt when she had turned over. With a burst of effort Aerith sat up, then flipped back the corner of the coverlet to look at it. It was whole, with only a pair of thin pink scars curving down her shin. She touched them lightly, feeling the softness of the newly knitted skin. She looked at her legs, sticking out like ivory reeds from under the coral hem of her robe. It had been months and months since she had seen her bare feet and they seemed completely unfamiliar to her, calloused and gnarled like the roots of a tree.

Aeriths' stomach squeezed again, spurring her to action. Cautiously, she dangled her feet off the side of the bed. There was still at least a foot drop down to the floor and she eased herself down carefully, landing on her good leg. Clinging to the bedclothes, Aerith took a tentative step onto the soft carpet. The leg was tender, the muscles murderously sore, but would bear her weight. Gathering her strength, she pushed herself off and tottered forward. She took the ten steps she needed to as quickly as she could. Her balance was off and she almost fell, reeling, but somehow was able to make it to the sofa. Aerith clung to the back of it like a drowning man, seeing spots and panting heavily. For a moment she rested, afraid she would black out if she moved too quickly.

"Oh!" There was a voice behind her. Someone had come in through the curtained archway, but she hadn't heard them. "Oh, milady, you shouldn't be out of bed."

Aerith turned. A young woman was swooping toward her, wearing the prim black and white costume of a ladies maid. Her warm brown eyes were full of concern. "Here, let me help you."

The maid looped one arm around Aerith's waist and helped her onto the sofa. Aerith could smell the roses in her perfume as she leaned against her. The fur throw was draped over the back of one of the chairs; the maid snatched it and draped it over Aerith's bare legs so she wouldn't catch cold.

"I'm very sorry, did we wake you?" the maid asked, kneeling down on the carpet to tuck the throw around her feet. "We're just making the final preparations."

"No," Aerith said. The tea service was just in reach but now that she was closer she could see that the porcelain plates that sat beside it held only crumbs. The maid caught her crestfallen look.

"I'll get you something more to eat right away. I'm very sorry we hadn't yet cleared the tray; the doctor said to expect you'd sleep until dinnertime." Her voluminous black skirt rustled as she got to her feet. "What can I get for you?"

"What can I have?"

The maid beamed down at her with a sparkle in her eyes. Her lace cap bobbed, perched at a rakish angle on top of her thick brown plaits, which were pinned up in a mass at the back of her head. With her slightly plump body and the plucky tilt of her head and hips, she reminded Aerith of a proud but cheerful sparrow.

"Why, anything you like! Our chefs are very talented."

Aerith thought, thrilling to the prospect. "Some fruit, please, berries and melon. And rice pudding. Or bread pudding. Any kind of pudding,really."

The maid curstseyed. "Certainly. Can I get you a glass of water or anything else while we wait?"

"Yes, water, please." Aerith settled her hands in her lap, unused to being waited on, especially by someone who was approximately the same age. The maid vanished, returning a few moments later with a cut crystal tumbler and a matching pitcher full of ice water. She poured Aerith a glass, then set it on the table where she could reach it, the ice inside it clinking musically.

"I'm Celeste, by the way. I'll be in charge of serving you while you and the master are here."

"Thank you," Aerith stammered.

The maid pressed one finger to her ear, to a tiny earpiece Aerith hadn't noticed before. She appeared to listen, nodded gently, then smiled. "The kitchen informs me that your tray will be ready shortly."

Aerith nodded. The short walk across the room had left her winded and weak. She wondered darkly if she would ever feel strong again. Perhaps all she had been finally struck her down to a place to where should never be able to recover. Aerith picked up the glass before her and brought it to her mouth. It took an obscene amount of effort but as she drank the cool water seemed to soak into her cells, subtly strengthening her from the inside out. "Where is Sephiroth?" she asked. The vague sense of alarm she had felt before had returned in force and she found herself wishing anxiously for the quiet strength of his presence.

"The master? He went out an hour or two ago. He left you these notes." Celeste crossed the room to the nightstand beside the bed and plucked two cream colored envelopes off of its gleaming marble surface. As Celeste pressed them into her hands, Aerith could see her name, written in brown ink in a precise and elegant hand. The lower envelope was fat and seemed to have more than paper folded inside it. Aerith opened the top letter. Sephiroth wrote how he spoke; spare and clean and to the point. He had gone out to attend to business, he would arrange for clothes for them both; the dressmaker would be up to see her tomorrow morning. There were a few things borrowed from the servants she could wear in the meantime. He suggested she rest and eat as much as felt good to her. The doctor would be in to see her after supper. He would return before then.

Celeste gathered up the tea things. "I'll be right back up with your tray. There are other servants nearby if you need anything. Feel free to call for them if there's anything you require." Aerith nodded, and laid the open letter on the tabletop. She waited until Celeste was out of the room, then opened the other envelope. There was a packet inside, folded from the same thick paper as the other letter. She pulled it open, and a shower of opalescent shards fell out onto her lap. Aerith recognized them as the fragments of the container that had held the Tears of the Moon. The written inscription on the inside of the packet said simply: I've saved these for you.

Aerith picked up the largest of the fragments and held it in her palm it like it was an egg, fragile and warm. The sudden surge of emotions that welled up within her caught her completely off guard and she felt her eyes begin to brim with happy tears. It was so unexpected, this last remnant from her people, the only physical link she had left, restored to her. Sephiroth had saved them. One by one she picked the fragments off of her lap, holding them in a small heap in her hands. The shards seemed to throb with a life of their own, keeping time with the force of her blood. For a while she rested, holding her hands to her heart. She thought of her mother's face, the memory of her voice, her soft cheek. _Please be safe_, she prayed_. Please make me strong again, so I can help you, all of you._

Eyes closed, she focused and waited, listening in her deepest heart for any glimmer of a response, anything at all. The silence was painful. Memories of dead soldiers, the ones she had killed, rushed into the void, and she trembled with shame and horror at the remembrance of what she had done.

_Forgive me,_ she prayed fervently, to anyone that was listening, _if you can._ Deeper and deeper she sunk into her own mind, searching outward with every ounce of strength she had. Were her people even alive to answer her? Or was she cut them off from them now, the impurity of the blood she had spilt a bar between them, forever? Aerith waited, hoping beyond hope, the sharp edges of the shards cutting into her hands. Slowly, ineffably, she thought she felt a familiar resonant presence began to press back towards her, the faintest of pressures like the brush of a butterflies wing.

"Those are very pretty stones," Celeste said, suddenly close at hand. Her skirts swished as she approached, the tray in her hands clinking and rattling under its burden. Aerith startled out of her trance with a gasp of surprise, and the shards fell out of her hands and pattered onto the carpet and across her lap in a glittering rain.

"Oh, I'm so sorry to have frightened you." Celeste said blithely. She set the heavy tray down on the tabletop, then began to pick the scattered shards up off the carpet. Aerith sat frozen with her hands limp in her lap, eyes wide, mute, the breath torn from her chest, but Celeste did not notice.

The maid placed the stones back on the tabletop. "these have such a nice fire, you should have them polished and set; they'd make an exquisite necklace."

"Yes, perhaps," Aerith said blankly, slowly coming back to the reality of her surroundings. Celeste folded the shards neatly back inside the paper packet and set it on the tabletop.

"I'll keep these right here."

Aerith nodded, trying to hold on to the ghost of the feeling she had just experienced, not sure if it had been real or something her mind had manufacted out of its own longing. Already it was slipping away like water through a drain. Aerith swallowed and laid her head back against the pillows, and resolved herself to the anguish of the unknowable. There was no way to be certain of any of it; in either case she doubted she was strong enough to know the truth. Perhaps it was better to focus only on the present for the time being, at least until she could recover. It was all she could do.

One by one, with a slightly overinflated sense of drama, Celeste plucked the lids off of the dishes. Aerith let her catch her eye, grateful for the distraction.

"I'm afraid the kitchen got a little carried away here," she said, smiling. "They do love to show off. Eat whatever you like and we'll save the rest for later if you want it."

Aerith surveyed the bounty before her. There was a selection of fresh fruit, a bowl of glistening berries and cream, warm bread pudding with caramel sauce, rice pudding with rum raisins, banana pudding stuck with thousand-layer wafers, and at least three different kinds of pudding parfaits.

"Ah, be careful what you wish for," Celeste said brightly, handing her a napkin and a spoon. "I'll be helping the other maids just around the corner if you need anything. I can take you on a tour of the suite later if you'd like, after your bath. Everything should be completely ready then."

"Thank you, I'd like that."

Celeste smiled; this time it was a little sad, tinged with pity. She squeezed Aerith's arm, then rustled out of the room.

Aerith sat up slowly, draped the napkin over her lap, then eased herself forward to perch on the edge of the sofa. The weight of her body felt like a heavy pillar of stone that she had to keep from tipping, and it was all she could do to resist the pull of gravity. The sight of all the food brightened her, though, and she went from dish to dish, tasting a little of each one until she was wonderfully, happily, full.


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

Sephiroth drummed his fingers impatiently on the dark brown leather of the tailors' sofa. The detritus of the days' task were scattered around the small shuttered room, but at last it appeared that it was coming to an end. Boxes of clothes and sample books full of fabric swatches were littered around him in heaps and from the back room he could hear the frenzied whirring of the sewing machines. The tailor had called in every leathercrafter, seamstress and embroiderer around for miles. Between Aerith and himself, they would be kept extremely busy for the next few weeks, and well compensated.

"Have we finished?" Sephiroth said. A deep weariness was creeping in again, as much as he tried to fight against it. At least there was only the doctor left to visit, for a quick evaluation at his office, and then he could return to the Inn and rest.

Moving slowly, enjoying his ease for the present, Sephiroth plucked the fluted goblet off the table at his elbow and savored the last swallow of the straw colored wine. It went right to his head and was clearly the last thing he needed in his weakened state, but the tailor had offered and it was bad form to refuse. Sephiroth checked to see if the shop assistant had replenished his plate with hors d'oeuvres, but he had not. Feeling peaceful and relaxed, he thought of Aerith. He wondered if she had awakened from the anesthesia and, if she had, how she was finding their new surroundings. She had spent most of her life in the Midgar slums, he remembered, and he wondered how all of it must seem to her.

For himself, luxury was unimpressive although he certainly appreciated excellence when he saw it. He had vague recollections of ShinRa events he must have had attended, held in lavish hotel ballrooms, the other generals and officers endlessly toasting the Presidents' accomplishments, with the best of everything at their disposal. He hoped Aerith had gotten the chance to sample some of the good things that were now open to them. If anything, their wealth bought options and choice; the most precious things of all.

Sephiroth bowed his head and inhaled the bouquet of the wine left in the bowl of his goblet. He closed his eyes to focus on the scent, just for a second. It was fruity and subtle, and smelt as green-gold as it tasted. It was still astonishing to him, how powerful of an experience it was, just to perceive this. He had had wine many times before, perhaps even this exact variety, but then he had been so tightly focused on efficiency, on detecting potential threats, completing the mission, or survival for himself or for the units he commanded that he retained nothing from the experience other than the naked facts.

There was so much pleasure, he thought, tasting the last remnants of the wine spreading across his tongue, that he had never known. It was all open to him now, if he wanted it, however he wanted it. He could choose. It was terrifying, and wonderful.

The tailor fidgeted nervously, flipping through a fat sheaf of paperwork. "Sir, if we could just clear up one minor detail…"

Sephiroth snapped to the present, setting down his glass. He had accepted that this endless dithering with the tailor was a necessary part of the process, but it was growing late and his patience had come to an end. Sephiroth stood up, the black leather in his new boots creaking.

"What is it now? I have an appointment to keep."

The tailor pulled a sketch of a dress jacket out of his papers and showed it to him. He indicated with a freshly sharpened pencil. "For these buttons, here, there are a number of options. Would you prefer them to be made of jet, ebony, or water buffalo horn? We can also offer them in silverwork if you could stand to wait another three days."

"I'll leave it completely to your expertise," Sephiroth answered, "as well as any other details other than what we've already discussed." The tailor began riffling more papers none the less and Sephiroth held up a hand to stop him.

"I must go now. Have the merchandise that's completed delivered to the hotel. Your assistant has the information," he ordered, stalking toward the door.

The tailor bowed his head, beaten. "All of your everyday wear should be completed within the week, the remainder within the next two."

"Excellent." Sephiroth stopped at the counter just inside the door. He placed a thick wad of one hundred gil notes on its smooth glass surface and pushed it toward the nervous tailor. "Here is your payment. You'll find I keep short accounts."

"Oh, why thank you, sir," the tailor stammered, his eyes wide.

Sephiroth inclined his head slightly to signal his farewell, adjusted his scarf and pulled on his new gloves. The bells on the outer door jangled brightly as he stepped out onto the street.

The sudden cold struck him sharp and hard, but with a full belly and several glasses of wine, it didn't hurt as much as it usually did. His new coat, made of fine black wool and lined with fox fur of the same color, was light and warm and easy to move in. It was similar to his old General's coat, fitted closely with a long sweeping hem and high collar, but closed at the throat and more refined. He caught sight of himself in the reflection of a shop window, swooping down the sidewalk like an ebony bird of prey, and noted his approval. He would never completely fit in but at least now he looked more or less like someone who belonged on this street, a wealthy young courtier perhaps, not a starving refugee that had staggered in from the wilds.

The doctors' office was a short twenty minutes' walk away. There was little traffic on the street at this hour of the afternoon, and only the occasional rumble of a truck or the punctuated gait of Chocobos hauling a sledge broke the monotony. The few people he passed looked at him furtively, as they usually did, trying not to stare. One brave soul, a well dressed man in his early forties, tipped his hat at him and wished him a good day before scurrying past.

Sephiroth waited alone in the close gloom of the doctors' waiting room. He guessed the chocolate brown walls and dim lighting was supposed to be calming but it was only making him feel as if he were buried alive. The tablet of forms he was supposed to fill out remained untouched on the coffee table, despite the receptionist's repeated insistence. Eventually the doctors' assistant appeared from behind the swinging oak paneled door that lead into the clinic and, with a perfunctory greeting, ushered him back into an examination room.

Draped solely in a pale blue gown, Sephiroth sat on the examination table. He gripped the edge of the table tightly, wrinkling the clean white sheet he sat on. Each breath was slow and deliberate, attempting to counter the alarm bells that were ringing in his head. Every instinct told him to leave immediately, be clear of this place, and never come back, but he remained where he was, absolutely still like a rock the ocean breaks itself upon.

His mind raced and he sought to calm it. The journey from the Crater had been perhaps the most arduous test he had ever endured, he thought. Starving and ill-equipped, he could hardly believe that they had made it at all. It was wise to assess the damage, he told himself. Healing spells had their limitations. As unpleasant as it was to submit to this, it was for his own good. At least he hoped so.

There were two sharp knocks on the door and the doctor entered in a blur of grey pinstripes, his gold watch dangling at his waist. He looked irritable, and tugged at the stethoscope that hung unevenly around his neck, trying to straighten it.

"You refused to fill out your personal information and health history, I see," he huffed.

"Yes. There's no need. As soon as my companion is ready to travel, we'll be moving on."

The doctor scowled. "If you're concerned about your privacy, I assure you we that hold all of our patient information in the strictest confidence." He lowered and sweetened his voice into what Sephiroth assumed was his bargaining tone. "At least give me the dignity of knowing your name."

Sephiroth felt his face harden. There should be no paper trail, he thought, nothing by which they could be linked to this place, just in case. If there was anything he knew for certain, it was that the written word endures.

"No insult to your discretion, doctor, but I would prefer to remain anonymous. I'd like to request that no records be kept on myself, or my companion. We only require your expert opinion. I can tell you any information you need to know verbally. I hope you can accept double your usual fee, for the trouble of dealing with these eccentricities."

The doctor frowned but seemed unwilling to press the issue further.

"As you wish. There's no need for additional payment, however." he said, trying to hide his annoyance that someone would think he could be so easily swayed by money, like any common man without principles. He paused as if he wanted to say more, but then turned away to the nearby sink and started washing his hands. Settling into his professional mode, his face unreadable, the doctor unlocked a drawer and withdrew a tablet and a fresh set of electrodes. "We'll check your vitals first, then take some blood."

Sephiroth watched impassively as the needle slid into his vein, as easy as it always did. His blood fed back through the tubing, hot against his skin.

"How much are you taking?" he asked.

"Just two tubes." The doctor finished drawing, then snapped the port closed. His assistant took the samples away. Sephiroth followed him anxiously with his eyes.

"We do all of our analysis in house," the doctor said. "The results will be ready shortly."

Sephiroth nodded. "What do you do with the samples after analysis?"

"They're incinerated, of course."

An hour and a half later, the examination and an infusion of electrolytes complete, Sephiroth stood in the dappled orange sunlight of the doctors' private office. The back of his triceps stung, sore from half a dozen injections of vaccines and vitamins.

Suddenly the doctor entered, keenly studying the tablet before him. He sat down at his desk and gestured for Sephiroth to sit in the chair opposite. The doctor steepled his hands before his mouth, his gaze intense.

"You said you came from the Northern Crater."

"That's correct." He had relayed the entirety of their journey, framing it as if it had been part of an exploratory expedition.

The doctor leaned back, still keeping his sharp evaluative pose, his face fenced behind his hands. "I wouldn't believe you, except for the number of rare elements that show up in your bone scan."

Sephiroth stared at him. "It is the truth."

"Apparently."

"Do you have my results?" Sephiroth demanded, disliking the doctor's appraising gaze.

"Yes." The doctor pushed the tablet toward him. "You have many of the issues that could be expected from a period of such severe stress: anemia, muscle and left ventricular wasting, malnutrition, electrolyte imbalances. Even so, it doesn't explain the results of your bloodwork." The doctor leaned forward. "I've never seen numbers like these before. I ran them three times but I still don't know what to make of them."

Sephiroth examined the readout in front of him. The parameters were a little out of normal, but not by much, not for him. The normal ranges for his unique blood chemistry were one of the first things they had taught him as a child; he remembered reciting them along with his multiplication tables. It had been a terrible shock when he had learned they weren't the same as everyone elses', and by how much.

"You don't seem concerned," said the doctor.

"No. They are close to what is typical for me."

"They are?"

Sephiroth let silence be his reply. He looked out the window, to the rooftops outside and the jagged ridge of the mountains beyond. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the doctor puzzling, trying to put all the pieces together, and it worried him. "What are your recommendations for my recovery?" Sephiroth asked pointedly, attempting to break his chain of thought.

"The same as for your companion. A minimum of five weeks travel restriction, taking as much rest and nutrition as possible."

"Noted. How long will you retain these files?"

"Just until you've recovered completely. I need them to compare your values against, to see how you're progressing."

Sephiroth nodded and although he knew there was nothing in them that could identify him personally, the fact did not comfort him.

The doctor took off his spectacles and cleaned them, slowly and methodically. Clearly there was something else he wanted to say. "May I be brutally candid with you for a moment?" he said, his hazel eyes boring into Sephiroths'. He settled his glasses back on the bridge of his bony nose.

"Certainly." Sephiroth said. A headache was spreading behind his eyes and he wanted nothing more than to be done with this and on his way.

The doctor looked out the window then down at the smoothly tooled leather of his desktop. He slowly shook his head. "In my forty years of medical practice, I have never seen anything like what you and your companion have presented. Even if only half of your story is true, with your wounds and the distance you have travelled, both of you should be dead, ten times over. No one has ever survived an overland expedition from the Crater." The doctor looked up, his eyes wide and soft with genuine perplexity. His gaze flickered from Sephiroths' sleek silver hair to his burning green eyes and back again, searching for the answer. Sephiroth found himself growing acutely uncomfortable, being scrutinized like a bug in a jar.

The doctor slowly inclined his head, his eyes lit with curiosity. "What would it take to survive what you have, and then still be able, a day or two later, to walk into my office? Frankly, it's inhuman," he said, musing aloud.

"I don't understand what you're implying." Sephiroth snapped, glaring. "Do you have any other recommendations with regards to further treatment, or have we finished?" He got to his feet.

Profoundly embarrassed by his indulgent lapse, the doctors' professional persona crashed down like an iron curtain. "No, I'm sorry, we've finished. I'll arrive at the hotel in a few hours to check on your companion. My assistant will be in to monitor your electrolyte balances daily for the next week or so. But with adequate nutritional support, both of you should well be on your way to recovery." He tugged and smoothed the lapels of his jacket and checked the time on his pocketwatch as if he had somewhere important he needed to be. He cast a nervous half-smile in Sephiroths' direction. "Thank you for coming in," he added, but Sephiroth had already taken his leave.

After settling his bill with the front desk and receiving a bottle of nutritional supplements from the dour faced assistant, Sephiroth found himself once again on the icy streets. He stalked briskly in the direction of the Inn, not wanting to be seen or deal with anyone. His experience at the doctors' had put him on edge and he couldn't stop thinking about it. Did the doctor actually suspect something or was he just idly thinking aloud? Sephiroth did not put it past him that he would not attempt to investigate further, if only from a medical point of view. His considered the chain of possibilities. The doctor might consult with his colleagues in one of the larger cities. They would have access to the main scientific databases. Then, if they were motivated to dig hard and long enough, they would eventually find the papers published by the ShinRa scientists. They would connect the dots. Or perhaps it would be simpler; perhaps the doctor would just pick up an old news article, a history book about the Wutai wars, mention something casually to a friend of a friend and they would know.

The thought of being captured, drugged, and pressed into service again made him sick. There was also Aerith to consider…what would they do with her? Sephiroths' stomach twisted with anxiety. There was nothing he could do but hope that the inevitable would somehow be held at bay until they were strong enough to fight against it.

Sephiroth began to walk faster, feeling lightheaded. He made his way through the narrow streets to the Inn. When he arrived there were several Chocobo-drawn coaches jockeying for position under the glass awning of the main entrance, all trying to be first. Upset by the close quarters and the sharp goads of their handlers, the birds were snarling at each other, their feathers bristling, standing on end like spikes. One swiped a foot full of long talons at another group that had gotten too close and the threatened birds shied away, shrieking. They leapt up and struggled in their harness, almost overturning the coach they were attached to. Their handlers were shouting at each other and struggling to control the overexcited animals while the footmen scattered, trying not to get trampled.

The mindless brutality of the fighting animals bothered him more than it should although he could not say precisely why. Sephiroth hurried past, grateful that Rufus had had the forethought for a private entrance where he could come and go virtually unnoticed. He found the outer gate, swiped himself through, and passed into a quiet garden courtyard. An unassuming entryway hidden behind a latticed screen revealed the sleek interior of the elevator. Sephiroth stepped inside and the door slid shut behind him, closing off the screaming of the raging birds.

The elevator ascended smoothly, silently. Sephiroth took a deep breath, turning over the events of the day in his mind. If the doctor was curious about the parameters of his bloodwork, he would be made even more so by seeing Aerith's sudden recovery. He would be forced to reveal the cause, but, he considered, perhaps that was not such a grave reason for concern. The use of materia magic had never been a commonly wielded thing, even in the military, but surely it was not too far outside the pale. Perhaps that explanation, and the fact that they were staying in the ShinRa suite would satisfy the doctor's curiosity to a degree and at the very least keep him from digging too deeply. Either way, he would bide his time and deal with things however they played out.

Sephiroth shifted his weight from foot to foot. His joints hurt miserably, and each of the injection sites in the back of his arms burned every time he moved. As much as he did not want to admit it, especially to himself, perhaps he had pushed himself unnecessarily. He needed a hearty meal, perhaps a soak in the bath to help relieve the inflammation in his muscles, then rest.

The elevator doors slid back at last. The character of the suite had significantly changed in his absence and it appeared that the staff had been quite busy. Soft light glittered in the crystal chandelier overhead; the furniture had all been uncovered and was shined and gleaming, the floors polished, and an enormous vase of fresh flowers had been placed on the round table in the center of the foyer. Instead of dust and stale air, the suite smelled richly of old books, flowers, leather, dark wood. Instantly, Sephiroth felt his body relax.

Faintly, he heard the muffled sound of someone knocking on a door, coming from somewhere inside the suite. As he entered the bedroom he saw it was Celeste, the ladies maid, tapping on the closed door of the dressing room. She was kneeling on the floor with her head pressed against the door, listening. She seemed to be in some distress.

"Milady, please come out. Whatever I did, I'm very sorry!" Celeste said plaintively. She heard him enter, and got to her feet, rushing to meet him. "Oh, I'm so glad you're here. I don't know what's gotten into her. I only asked if she would like to read todays' paper while I dried her hair. She started to read, then all of a sudden went white as a sheet and ordered me out. She's locked herself inside the dressing room for the past half hour and won't answer when I call…" The maid twisted her hands and gulped. "I do hope nothing's happened to her."

He turned to Celeste. "Thank you. I will take care of it. Leave us now, please," he said firmly but gently. Weary, Sephiroth swallowed hard and approached the dressing room. He tapped twice, with no answer.

"Aerith. It's me," he said, "Open the door."


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter 32

The afternoon had drifted away. Deeply satisfied with her meal, Aerith stretched and rested her head idly against the curved back of the sofa. She had finished the last of the chamomile tea; her empty cup rested lightly in her cupped hands, still warm. As she watched, shafts of amber light from the setting sun gradually slid over the beveled glass panes of the hallway. Rainbow facets danced on the floor, playing over the plush carpets. Setting her teacup aside, she sat up and gazed toward the balcony, thinking of the cold crisp air and how beautiful the snow and the rooftops of the town would look with the light on it. A gentle smile teased at the corners of her mouth. It was finally beginning to feel real, and actually possible, that she was safe and this place was truly hers to enjoy.

Celeste entered, catching her eyes. She surveyed the empty dishes. Aerith had eaten almost everything. "You've finished?" she said, surprised approval glowing in her voice.

Aerith nodded. "Yes, thank you. It was all delicious."

Celeste smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling. "I'll let the chefs know how much you enjoyed it. Would you like your tour now or would you prefer a bath first?"

"The tour, please." The meal, with so many of her favorite foods, had dramatically elevated Aerith's mood and she was eager to explore everything her temporary home had to offer.

"Hmm, I thought so." Celeste offered her arm and helped her up. "You can lean on me if you need to."

She did. "Thank you," Aerith said sheepishly.

Even though her leg was completely healed she was still afraid to put too much weight on it. Together they walked through the archway and out into the corridor. Her joints ground painfully and her body protested every step. She was hobbling like an old woman Aerith thought, annoyed with herself. The day when she would feel strong again could not come soon enough. She looked down, noticing how thin and bony her fingers looked against the soft flesh of Celeste's forearm. She hoped the maid truly didn't mind.

Celeste led her along the corridor off toward the left which ended in a set of French doors. A thin film of condensation misted the inside of the glass and as Celeste swept them open, they were met by a flood of warm moist air. Aerith scented earth, black and loamy.

"This is the conservatory," said the maid. Her voice echoed in the soaring space. "It's mostly empty now but I can arrange for you to speak with our head gardener if you'd like to have it filled."

"Yes, I'd like that very much." Aerith stammered. If she could have she would have jumped right then and there, for joy. She stared at the enormous room before her, her lips parted with wonder and disbelief. A small palace of light and air curved against the contours of the tower, the steel beams of the roof and walls inset with a million panels of clear sparkling glass. Long paper lanterns hung at the apex of each pointed arch, swaying slightly in the damp air. A tiered fountain burbled in the center of the room, rising seamlessly out of a pool in the smooth marble floor. A wrought iron table and chairs were next to it, shaded by a towering trio of Queen palms, the tips of their filmy fronds just brushing the ceiling. Aerith ran her hand over the smooth tabletop as she passed it by; it was jet black stone, veined white, a photonegative of the stone in the floor. The chairs were thickly cushioned with sea green velvet. As soon as Celeste happened to be looking the other way, Aerith impulsively pinched the seat of the chair closest to her, to test how soft it was.

"This is a nice place to take your meals." Celeste said. "I've left a menu for you to look over, in case you're curious to know what we're serving downstairs. Of course you're welcome to order anything you'd like at any time."

The maid took a few steps away and looked up, gesturing expansively at the lanterns overhead. "The lights are set to automatically adjust themselves with the daylight, but you can also control them with the remote that's in your bedchamber if you like things brighter or dimmer."

Aerith nodded, half listening. Her mind was turning excitedly as she imagined a lush subtropical forest, her forest, breathing with the green breath of life.

Celeste led her along the outside curve of the room, indicating three sets of french doors that pierced the glass façade.

"A balcony runs all along the outside for when you want fresh air." Celeste said, but Aerith's interest had already shifted elsewhere.

Far in the back of the conservatory, in an octagonal offshoot of the main room was a chaise lounge upholstered in pink watered silk. A brass filigree table perched at its head was its only companion. Aerith released herself from Celeste's arm and reached it in a dozen unsteady steps. Panting lightly, she leaned against the curving back of the chaise and clung with her fingers gripping the tufting. She looked up, out into the distance, and her breath hitched, caught in her throat.

The view was astonishing. The steep rooftops of the town and the tree covered hills gave way to a sweeping vista of the snowy plains, a line of blue mountains crowning it far in the distance. The sun burned low in the western sky, hanging just over their jagged peaks, enflaming the towering clouds a burnt red-gold. Aerith felt the warmth of it on her face, the light flooding through her thick lashes as she squinted against it.

As she stared at the cold lines of the mountains she gradually felt the tension within her fade, just a little. Her future was unknowable, the challenges before her uncertain, and she wasn't sure she was strong enough to face them. But something about the light comforted her and she allowed it to fill her, letting herself exist only within the moment. For the space of a few breaths she was at peace.

"This is the best view from the entire Inn," said Celeste, breaking the silence after they had enjoyed the view together for a few moments. "It's cloudy now, but on a clear day you can see all the way to the western sea. It sparkles beautifully when the light is right."

"It's magnificent." Aerith whispered. It was everything she could do to resist the temptation to stretch herself out on the chaise and do nothing but watch the sun slowly sink. She imagined lying on her back, watching as the stars came out one by one, the rise and set of the ghostly moon. The vastness of the open sky used to frighten her; it was too big and too endless, like death or the deep abysses of the ocean, but she was used to it now. She felt kinship with the stars, especially. They were just like her, each tracking their own solitary voyage.

Celeste interrupted her reverie, holding out her arm, eager for the other things yet to show her.

Aerith allowed herself to be led back the way she came, past the archway of her bedroom in the opposite direction. Three dark walnut doors punctuated the wall on the left side; one faced them at the end of the corridor.

"Here we have the library." Celeste opened the first door, that nearest to them. Fireplaces blazed on either side of a room paneled in glossy walnut, furnished with a weighty writing desk and chairs and couches that were proportioned for comfortable reading. Tall windows were shadowed with fern colored drapes that puddled luxuriously out onto the floor and Aerith saw to her delight that a wide window seat ran along the base of them. Books lined the walls nearly floor to ceiling. Aerith wandered closer to investigate, peering at their gilded bindings, but the titles seemed to be almost entirely geological texts, half of which were in languages she couldn't read.

"You'll find that it's currently stocked with rather…focused choices," Celeste said with a barely concealed smile, "But there's our main library on the twelfth floor, and you're more than welcome to borrow any book you like from there. We have a wide variety of subjects and genres to choose from and I'm sure you'll find something that will interest you."

She walked to the open doorway and waited while Aerith completed having a look around. The next two rooms were guest and valet's quarters respectively, the former being elegantly furnished in royal blue and silver, the latter in deep green, with dark furniture in a simpler style.

'This here," Celeste said, opening the last door at the end of the hall, "is your bath. You can also reach it through your room. As you saw, the guest and valet's rooms have their own baths, although with not nearly as many amenities."

The doorway faced a pierced stone screen that ran floor to ceiling, which obscured a direct view into the room. As she passed around it to the space within, Aerith smelled heat and water and some kind of wonderfully fragrant but subtle perfume. The entire space was clad in veined white marble, the fluted walls rising to meet in a concave ceiling. A round skylight was inset into the apex of the roof, shedding a shaft of light down into the dim interior. Stone screens pierced and carved with intricate geometric patterns broke up the space, filtering light and shadow in beautiful ways. All of these elements made the room seem soothing and mysterious and much larger than it actually was.

Celeste sidled up beside Aerith. "Archeologists say that in ancient times, the desert under the Golden Saucer used to be the site of a city-state ruled by three princes. Of all of their riches, only their writings survive to tell us the tale of their rise and fall." She paused. "This room was modeled after a description of their palace hammam. Of course, their original plans have been updated somewhat, with modern conveniences." She smiled. "Who knows, perhaps all their jewels are still waiting for us to discover them, hidden under all that sand."

"That's a beautiful thought," Aerith murmured, almost to herself.

Together they walked back into the center of the space, where an enormous oval bath of black basalt was set into the floor. It could have easily fit four people. Steps cut into its side curved around its periphery, descending down into its deep basin. A white fur rug flowed out onto the floor beside it, a silver bench perched in its center.

"I'll get this started and show you the rest of the amenities while it fills. " Celeste said, kneeling on the floor next to the bath and turning on the gleaming brass taps. The sound of rushing water filled the air, steam already beginning to rise. "It takes a little while," she said, getting to her feet and wiping her wet hands on her apron.

As they meandered through the space, Celeste pointed out different features of interest, her cheerful voice resonating off of the marble walls.

"This is the rock bathing suite," she said as they travelled toward one corner of the room. She opened a frosted glass door onto a dark space paneled in pink and black stone. The heat within was intense and immediate, the air smelling faintly of cedar. "You can lie on these black stone beds and the heat will purify you of toxins as you sweat. It's very good for your skin. Through that other door in the back is a room to cool down and relax in afterwards. We keep it stocked with herbal tisanes to keep you well hydrated."

Next Celeste pointed out the shower cove, which was cleverly hidden within an intersection of the piercedwork screens on a slightly raised platform of textured marble. There were multiple showerheads inset into the curved ceiling of the cove, each as large as a dinner plate. Celeste showed Aerith how to adjust them in their complete range from a driving pressure to a gentle rain that pattered down in fat drops like a warm summers' shower.

In the middle of their lesson, Celeste suddenly cocked her head, hearing a change in the pitch of the running water that Aerith did not. "I think your bath is ready," she said.

They made their way back to the center of the room. Aerith sat on the silver bench, grateful to be off her feet. She watched as the maid opened a patterned glass canister of bath crystals and cast handful after handful into the water. Celestes' face was as serious as if she were conjuring a spell. The water turned hazy, then a deep emerald green, and a marvelous fragrance of minerals and sweet herbs began to waft from its steaming surface. When it had finally reached the depth of color that met her approval, Celeste turned to her.

"If you'd like to get undressed now, I'll help you in."

Aerith blushed. For a moment she forgot how to speak. She clutched involuntarily at the loose neck of her robe, clapsing it closed tight around her neck.

"I'd really rather you didn't," she said. For the first time that afternoon, Aerith felt a dark shadow slide across her heart. With all the beautiful things unfolding around her she had almost been able to forget the scar that marked her, that red slash that rippled on her abdomen and tore at her back every time she breathed. Aerith quailed with shame. She couldn't bear Celeste's questioning look, that mixture of pity and revulsion that would be sure to register in her eyes.

"I can hold up a towel, if you're bashful," Celeste offered, puzzled at Aerith's sudden and palpable discomfort. "Once you're in the bath and settled, the water will hide you. I'm sorry milady but in your present state I don't want to leave you alone. The doctor would have my head if anything happened."

Aerith pursed her lips, more than aware of her own weakness and the wisdom of Celeste's offer. "It's fine, that's fine," she said in a rush. She waited anxiously while the maid got a towel from the rack and knelt on the rim on the tub beside the steps. Celeste stretched the towel open between her outstretched hands and turned her head, shielding Aerith from her gaze.

"Don't worry, I promise I won't peep," she said playfully, trying to lighten the mood.

Aerith stood up and kicked off her jeweled slippers, the fur of the rug delicious and soft on the soles of her feet. She stood nervously behind the screen of Celeste's towel and undid the knot in her robe, letting it slither down her back and onto the floor. Aerith grasped Celeste's outstretched arm to steady herself, instinctively hunching and twisting her body to hide her nakedness even though she knew she couldn't be seen. Unsteady, she descended into the bath, almost crying with relief as she slid into the warm embrace of the water. After the long months of the desiccating arctic air and the bitter cold it was like coming back to life. She let herself sink deeper, submerging herself up to her ears. Her body drifted toward the bottom like a sinking leaf and she rested the back of her neck on the curved rim of the tub to keep her head above water. Gradually she felt herself unfurl like a thirsty plant, drinking in the moisture.

"Alright now?" Celeste chirped from behind the towel.

"Yes," Aerith sighed. "Much better."

Celeste clinked bottles and jars behind her, searching for the right one.

"I was going to go ahead and wash your hair if you don't mind. There's a million tangles in it and it needs a deep conditioning treatment. When was the last time you had it done?"

"I don't know." Aerith replied. She honestly didn't. It sounded much too fancy, so the answer was probably never. The maid scooped up water with a silver dipper and poured it over her head.

"Ah, you've been in the wilds a long time," Celeste said, and quickly poured on two more dipperfuls. Aerith could almost feel the grit running off her. She smelt the acrid soot of the Nordkaat camp and she shuddered, glad to have it off her.

"Yes," she sighed wearily. "It was a very long, dangerous, journey."

"That's what you get, for being a brave adventurer," chirped the maid, "Well, leave it to me, you'll never know it when I'm done with you."

Celeste poured on a generous amount of shampoo and scrubbed at her scalp with gusto. She exclaimed and fussed at the discovery of every knot and tangle, but Aerith's mind was far away, dreaming of her garden. She imagined banks of lush ferns, roses, peonies and delphinium, orchids with fleshy blossoms like laughing children's faces. She drifted, half asleep.

Flowers…were there still flowers in Midgar? Or had they all gone now, with no one tending them? This unhappy thought held her for a moment. But perhaps her friends had continued, if only for her memory. Uneasily, she thought of them. Where were they now, how had they moved on with their lives? Longing filled her heart, to see them again, just once. She wasn't sure if she dared.

"There you go," said Celeste at last. The pads of Aerith's fingers were pink withered prunes. "I've gotten out every last snarl. We'll just let that conditioner soak a bit more, then out you come."

Torn from her thoughts, Aerith turned and smiled weakly up at the maid. Celeste smiled back and handed her a brush to scrub her nails.

Fifteen minutes later she was sitting in her dressing room, swaddled head to foot in soft fragrant towels, the maid blotting at her wet hair.

"Is everything alright?" Celeste said, noticing Aerith's sad expression. Something was clearly bothering her and had been, for a while.

"Hmm? It's nothing. Just remembering some things I'd rather not."

Celeste was quiet for a moment. "Well, sometimes when I'm sad I like to distract myself. Would you like a paper to read while I finish drying your hair? You have so much of it, it's going to take a while."

She shouldn't have shouted at her, she really shouldn't have, Aerith thought. Celeste had done nothing wrong. She lifted her head off of her knees and stared into the silvery face of the mirror. Deep warmth from the bath still lingered in her body, but it no longer comforted her. The image of herself looked back from the glass with wasted hollow cheeks, the eyes huge and hungry, her half-damp hair hanging limply on either side of her face. _I am a wraith_, she thought, searching her own eyes, _I don't really belong here, in this world. _

She looked down again at the leaves of the newspaper scattered on the floor, at the date, the digits burning black on white. The tentative buoyancy she had felt growing within her over the course of the afternoon had popped and vanished like a soap bubble on those stark numbers, leaving her reeling, gasping for air.

Celeste was tapping on the door and calling for her, again. The plaintive note in her voice made Aerith burn with guilt but she could not face her or hope to articulate what she was feeling, and why.

Out of it all, it was the arbitrariness that bothered her the most. Thirty-eight years. Why not thirty-seven, or thirty-nine? There was no significance, to any of it.

Darkly she wished it had been longer, much longer, enough to know with certainty that everyone she had known and loved were dead, having lived out their lives. It would have been easier, in a way. She could have grieved them, for herself and all they had meant to her, and then been free to move on, imagining their lives full and happy. Anything was better than this uncertainty, the tension of knowing that they might still be out there and that she could, if she wished, perhaps find them, see them. Or perhaps she would find them dead after all. Aerith swallowed hard. Did she really want to know, to have that certainty? What right had she to come to them now after so long, if they were still alive? Either way it would be painful and no good could come of it.

It was selfish, she knew, but she desperately wanted the comfort of their company, especially after everything she had endured. But she had no right to intrude on their lives, not when her people needed her. Aerith sobbed quietly. Why was it always too much to ask, to have a little comfort for herself? She drew in a stuttering breath as Celeste knocked again, wiggling the door handle.

Exhausted beyond endurance, Aerith put her head down on her knees and encircled them with her arms. She felt like a mote of dust trapped in some cosmic sunbeam, the winds of fate endlessly buffeting her in whatever direction they pleased. A few moments passed. Celeste had stopped knocking. Vaguely she registered some kind of activity in the next room. She heard a flurry of footsteps receding, then silence.

Two light taps on the door. Her name was spoken by a deep resonant voice that she recognized instantly, and she felt herself relax in spite of herself. Sephiroth. Out of anyone, he might understand. She undid the catch on the door and sat back down on the bench, hunching forward.

"It's open," she called.

Sephiroth entered, kneeling down beside her so they could be eye to eye. "Are you all right?" he asked with some alarm, remembering what the doctor had said, about the fragility of her heart. "Are you ill?"

"No."

"Then what's wrong? The maid was very frightened for you."

"I know. I'm sorry." Aerith could feel herself tearing up.

"Then what is it?"

"Here." She handed him one of the pages from the newspaper.

Sephiroth scanned.

"You're upset about the airship embargo?"

"No, don't be ridiculous," she snapped. The tears that had welled in her eyes threatened to drop. She dabbed at them with the corner of the towel and took a few deep breaths to calm down. She was so sick of crying, of sadness. "The date. Look at the date."

Sephiroth read it. Then read it again. He carefully placed the paper back on the floor, not sure what to think.

"You're certain this is correct?"

"Why wouldn't it be?" she said.

Sephiroth stared at the date. It was exciting and terrifying all at once. Everything he had taken for granted had been suddenly turned on its head. Rufus was now a middle aged man. Half the Turks he knew were probably retired. Perhaps he had been forgotten.

"How could this happen?" he said, musing aloud.

"I don't know..." Aerith said. She took another deep breath. Sephiroths' presence calmed her more than she wanted to admit. "What are we supposed to do, now?"

Sephiroth looked thoughtful. "We should learn as much as we can about how things are. Then take the time we need to recover. We'll need all our strength for the next part of the journey. The Forgotten Capital will still be there."

Aerith nodded, concealing her private misery. She supposed he was trying to be reassuring. He was right, the Capital would remain, but there might not be anyone left to meet her there, no warm presence, no healing light, just emptiness echoing through the moss-shrouded stones… The thought made her choke. Her rebirth might have all been for nothing, and at the end she would be left in the ruined city of her people, totally alone. She considered for a moment just telling him, everything, but the words stuck in her throat and she could not bear to utter them. Her eyelids fluttered, a sharp pain throbbing in her right temple. Aerith squinted, rubbed at it. Just one thing at a time, she decided. There was nothing she could really do, in her current state, anyway. Her thoughts turned back to her friends. She could share that, at least.

"There were so many people I left behind, when I…left. I was hoping to maybe see them again, but now, because of the time, I…can't. For many reasons." She clutched the towels tighter to her chest, sighing heavily.

"I understand," Sephiroth said. He had no animosity for any of them, although they once had been his enemies. That time of his life, half remembered, no longer held any relevance. His heart panged sadly, for himself. There would have been no one besides Jani that would have ever missed him. He considered what it was like for her, to have that uncertainty, to have had so many people around that cared, meant something. Aerith interrupted his thoughts.

"My foster mother is most certainly gone now," she said. "She was already old when she took me on." Aerith sat up and looked at her hands, at her clean pink nails. "The rest…I don't know. I'm not sure I want to know." She looked at him, sorrow lining her face.

"I'm sorry. Perhaps it's better." Sephiroth said. After much consideration he preferred to remember Jani how he did, without the knowledge of how she died further coloring his memories. No matter how their stories had played out, she had loved him, and he had loved her. That was enough to hold on to.

Aerith shivered. The towels she was wrapped in had lost their warmth and were growing clammy against her skin. "All of this feels unreal."

"It will take some time to adjust." Sephiroth said. He needed to remember this, for himself, as well.

"Yes. It's so much of a shock. In some ways the wilds were easier." Aerith said. She sighed, deep in thought. Then she looked at him, and smiled, slightly. "But I'm glad you're here, that we're here, together. I honestly never thought we'd make it this far. We wouldn't be here at all, if it hadn't been for you."

"Hmm. Thank you. I am glad as well," Sephiroth said, his voice flat, glancing down. The warmth and openness in her eyes made his chest burn with cruel longing. He got up from the floor. It was different now, being with her, and he had to watch himself, remember to stay within his bounds. She had made her feelings about him clear, long ago.

"Perhaps you should get dressed," he said. It came out a lot more harshly than he meant. "Shall I send for Celeste?"

"Yes, please," Aerith said, confused and hurt by his sudden coldness. She tried desperately to keep her voice from breaking, and cleared her throat. "I should apologize to her." She looked at Sephiroth. He seemed anxious to get away and was already halfway to the door.

"I'll be in the conservatory, then," he said curtly. He shot her a quick glance, his mouth a thin tense line.

Aerith nodded. "I'll be there soon."


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter 33

Clutching a tablet and a thin stack of newspapers, Sephiroth entered the warm gloom of the conservatory. Outside the night had unfurled in a curtain of indigo velvet, the bright points of the stars spangling through the glass. Already a thin diaphanous line of aurora plumed along the edge of the eastern horizon, licking along the tops of the jagged mountains. The lanterns overhead brightened at Sephiroths' entry, but he dimmed them all to a dull smolder with a wave of his hand. The echoing emptiness of the conservatory against the vastness of the sky made him feel empty and unmoored, and he preferred not to look at it if he had a choice.

Sephiroth made his way to the table at the center of the room and sat down. The servants had already placed a pair of lit candelabra on its polished surface, with two places set for dinner. Reflexively, he went to put his napkin on his lap, then caught himself, and turned away from his place setting. His stomach rumbled painfully, but information was dearer than food, at least for the present moment. He preferred to wait for Aerith, anyway.

Concern knotted his throat as he thought of her. The things that hurt her now he could no longer touch, could not be dealt with with a sword. It was not like him to feel helpless but he felt it now. His own feelings for her, that snarled black landscape of thorns he had hoped was dead at last, had in the space of a few days sprung back to life and was already running rampant, growing completely out of control. He no longer knew himself, what he was capable of.

Sephiroth looked at the papers before him, struggling to focus on the task at hand. The servants had left him the past week's worth of the Edge-Midgar Phoenix, a few issues of the local Examiner, and three rumpled copies of the Wutai Register dating from the previous spring. They had informed him, with deep regret, that these were the most current issues of the Register that could be had since the Tokugai regime had closed the borders.

Sephiroth read hungrily, his shrewd eyes skimming over the pages. Although now challenged by a number of smaller upstarts and facing more serious pressure from the worlds' governments, it was obvious that ShinRa remained alive and well. Scattered throughout the papers were brief mentions of a reactor conversion project that seemed to have been ongoing for many years. It appeared that ShinRa had shifted from materia extraction to fossil fuels. A three page spread proclaimed their discovery of a large deposit of coal and natural gas in North Corel, the largest ever recorded. A large picture of Rufus ShinRa was on page two, showing him giving a speech at the opening of the diggings. Sephiroth absorbed the details of the image with interest.

For once his memory was crisp and clear although it was just a fragment: Rufus pulling himself up into the open bay of a black helicopter, the pale tails of his coatjacket flapping in the hot exhaust of the engine. His face was twisted with a sour look of thinly disguised contempt as he ordered him to compile a report on the progress of the Fort Condor reactor. Naturally Rufus wanted it on his desk by an impossibly short deadline, which, to his gross annoyance, Sephiroth always managed.

Alone in the candlelight, Sephiroth smirked to himself. It was no secret that the Presidents' son had always considered him as striving above his station and severely resented his success in the Wutai Wars. It had been an amusing game, how much he could irritate Rufus and get him to lose his composure, just by his mere presence.

All the same, it was strange to see him now, Sephiroth mused, still powerful but much thinner than he remembered, leaning on a silver headed walking stick in a way that assured that it was not just for fashionable effect. Rufus was sneering confidently in the picture but the lines around his mouth and eyes had hardened into deep furrows and a cluster of small jagged scars marred one side of his forehead. His hair was now an indeterminate shade of blonde grey, the thinning strands lifting lightly in the breeze. A neatly dressed woman, someone he did not recognize, was standing behind him in the picture, modestly looking down and away. Two teenaged boys, almost of age, stood beside her, dressed in crisp suit jackets, their hair slicked back and glossy. They were still gawky with youth but Rufus' features were already beginning to sharpen in their faces.

Time flew by as Sephiroth pored over the papers, greedily devouring every scrap of information. Finally, after repeated interruptions by the servants asking if he was ready for his meal, with no sign of Aerith, he relented and let them begin service. The first course of his dinner arrived a few moments later; an assortment of shellfish on ice and a bowl of pearly black caviar, accompanied by a thin flute of dry champagne. Sephiroth spread a fat dollop of the caviar on a triangle of toast and continued reading, enjoying the salty pop of the fish eggs bursting between his teeth.

Despite the attempts of the Tokugai clan to maintain order, Wutai was still unsettled and dangerous, particularly in the cold desert highlands in the south. Terrorists had captured a refinery across the channel in the Cosmo region and set it on fire, causing a severe shortage of airship fuel worldwide. Sephiroth doubted it would do much to curtail ShinRa's activities. As usual, they'd take what they needed, letting the price on the free market soar. Any excuse, real or manufactured, was convenient enough to pad their own pockets.

There was a sharp tap on the conservatory doors and Sephiroth heard them open. A gust of cool air made the candle flames flutter. The footsteps that approached him were even and brisk.

"Ah. I'm interrupting your dinner," said the doctor as he entered the circle of light cast by the candles. "My apologies." He stood awkwardly a few feet away.

Sephiroth shot him a mild, noncommittal glance. He let him stand there for a moment, then slowly folded the paper he was reading and placed it on the table beside him. He took another spoonful of caviar, spreading it thinly on a piece of toast with a mother of pearl knife.

"You have something to tell me?" he asked. He kept his face neutral but he was anxious to hear his appraisal of Aerith's condition.

The doctor looked uncomfortable and looked around the room, not wanting to meet Sephiroth's piercing eyes. "Yes." He gestured toward the empty chair across from him. "May I sit down?"

"By all means."

The doctor settled himself onto the chair. He fiddled with the thick gold links of his watchfob. They clinked together musically, soft and heavy. He cleared his throat, getting down to business. "As we had arranged earlier, I've just been in to check on your companion." He paused. Sephiroth took a sip of his champagne and watched him intently over the crystal rim of his glass. "She's weak but stable. I have given her another round of supplements. I was surprised, however, to note her rather sudden recovery from the last time I saw her."

"Her broken leg."

The doctor looked away nervously. "Yes, that specifically. I hadn't expected her to be free of the immobilizer, and walking, _quite_ so soon. It's quite miraculous." He paused and fixed Sephiroth with a probing stare, which he deflected. The doctors' attempt to be casual was failing miserably. Sensing this, he abandoned his pretense entirely, leaning forward across the table. His voice dropped down to a breathless whisper. "You healed her, didn't you. With materia."

Sephiroth plucked three oysters off of their bed of ice and placed them on his plate. "That's correct. What of it?"

"Where on earth did you get it?" Eager desperation colored his voice.

"Why do you want to know?" Sephiroth answered, surprised by his suddenly conspiratorial tone.

The doctor looked up at him, his hands clenched on the tabletop. "I had a small piece, once. Of course I had to surrender it as part of the Ban, just as we all did. I didn't think there was any materia left, anywhere." The doctor shook his head and continued. "That was a dark day for the medical profession. The technology we have now is good, in some ways much better, but…" he scowled, frustrated, looking off into the darkness over Sephiroth's right shoulder. "I would give anything for some again, the Ban and the Materia Reclamation Office be damned!"

Sephiroth squeezed a wedge of lemon over the oysters on his plate and tossed one down his throat, chasing it with a sip of champagne. He liked the doctors' burst of temper; it reminded him a little of Baral. Unbidden he felt the ghost of the merchants' hearty laugh pass through him, bittersweet.

All of this was unapparent to the doctor. Sephiroth's unreadable expression and his silence made him even more uncomfortable than he already was. "Did ShinRa supply the materia, for your expedition?," the doctor asked with trepidation.

"No," Sephiroth answered. He didn't remember how he had gotten most of the materia he had, so it wasn't strictly a lie.

The doctor kept his eyes fixed on the tabletop, the reflected flames of the candles wavering in its dark surface. "Can you get or find me a piece? Just something to heal with. I don't care if it's at a low grade, as long as it's stable."

"I'll see what I can do." Sephiroth said.

"What is your price?" the doctor asked dryly.

Sephiroth studied him intently, long enough to make him squirm.

"What I value most is your discretion, doctor," he said at last. "Something you also understand, given the circumstances. I would hate for anyone to know you've been soliciting for the possession of illegal contraband."

The doctor paled. Sephiroth wasn't certain what the consequences were for him to be caught with materia but from his reaction it appeared to be extremely severe. "I propose a trade," Sephiroth continued, "Your services and your silence for a piece of materia, no questions asked. As far as you're concerned my companion and I were never your patients and do not exist should anyone ask. You'll treat us as we require. In return I'll deliver to you a piece of restorative material, before we leave, of course."

The doctor nodded. He seemed to relax, a little. "Agreed."

"Is there anything else we need to discuss?" Sephiroth said, glancing toward the doorway of the conservatory. The outer door had quietly opened and closed again but he hadn't looked long enough to tell who was coming.

The doctor glanced behind him. "Yes," he said. It obviously concerned Aerith, who was approaching. "But it can wait for another time." He got to his feet, frowning, his brow furrowed. "I think we understand each other. I'll be going now. We'll be in touch. Again, my apologies for having interrupted your dinner." He inclined his head in greeting and bowled slightly toward Aerith, who had just stepped into the pool of light surrounding the table. The doctor bowed, bid her good evening then made his leave. She turned towards him, somewhat shyly.

"Hi. Sorry, it took a lot longer than I thought. Celeste has a much different idea than I do of what it means to get ready for dinner," Aerith said. She glanced in the direction of the retreating doctor, then looked back at him questioningly. "Is everything…ok?"

Sephiroth got to his feet. His mouth flashed dry and for a second he couldn't move. Shocked at the sudden change in her appearance, he looked at her, then down at the food in front of him, trying with everything he had not to stare.

"Yes," he managed to say, "The doctor wanted to know about your leg. There's been a complete ban on the use and possession of Materia, apparently, so he was quite surprised to see that you were healed and walking on it."

Sephiroth swallowed hard. It was difficult to believe she was the same woman he had seen just a few hours ago, shivering miserably in wet towels, lamenting the loss of the world she knew.

Aerith was wrapped in a long cream colored dress embroidered with a complex pattern of gold, red, and blue arabesques and flowers. Her slim waist was delineated with a cornflower blue silk sash; it was knotted at the side with the tails draping down along her skirt. A creamy lace jacket surrounded her shoulders and enclosed her upper arms in a soft froth. Her hair fell down her back in dark red curls, held away from her face with a long tortoiseshell hairpin set with rubies and opals. Fat golden pearls dangled from her ears, wobbling on delicate gold wires. While Sephiroth had always been more than aware of her gender, he had never been quite as exquisitely conscious of it as he was now.

"Why would they ban Materia?" Aerith asked, puzzled.

"I'm not certain. It seemed to have happened some time ago, as there's no mention of anything in the papers. It might be just a regional law, as well." he said.

She was still standing beside the table, looking up and past him at the aurora, which had now climbed up into the sky like a fluttering multicolored ribbon. As beautiful as she was, he could see the way she held her sadness within her, imprisoning it within herself like a cold blue flame. He wished there was something he could do, so she could be free of it, if only for a little while, but it was not his place, and likely would never be. Why did he always refuse to accept this?

Sephiroth suddenly remembered his etiquette.

"Shall I help you with your chair?" he said, taking a step towards her. She was wearing perfume, something wild and earthy and floral that he had never associated with her before.

"No, thanks, I can manage," Aerith said, shying away. "It's easier to get around in this dress than it looks." Her skirts rustled softly as she moved and settled into her seat. Sephiroth sat down again. He felt jittery but wasn't certain exactly why. He took a sip of champagne to quench his arid mouth, making a mental note to order a glass for her.

"Celeste found these clothes for me," Aerith said. She smoothed the lap of her dress and sighed. "She's really wonderful. Do you like them?"

Sephiroth allowed himself to look at her; she was inviting him to. He let his eyes run down the curve of her neck, across her collarbone then away, before it became too tempting to venture further.

"They suit you. Where did they come from? The dressmaker isn't supposed to come until tomorrow."

"They're from one of the former guests. They'd been in storage for a few years but Celeste had them cleaned and pressed for me. She said she didn't think I had to worry about the owner coming back for them, that I could have them if I wanted." Aerith took her napkin and twisted the corner of it before spreading it in her lap. "I wonder what that really means?"

"It's probably nothing." Sephiroth said.

Aerith's eyes were still shrouded and she looked tired. He showed her the platter of food, hoping to get her mind onto something productive. "Are you hungry?"

"I am, actually, although I just ate a few hours ago. But what are…those?" Her eyes moved over the glistening platter with interest.

"What in particular?"

"All of it, actually."

"It's shellfish. These are fresh oysters." He paused, remembering her past. He imagined her diet in the slums had been fairly limited. He brightened. "Ah. You've never had seafood before, have you?"

" Not really. Just the cave fish from the Crater. But I don't think those count."

"No. I wouldn't use anything we ate there as a basis for comparison. Here, try these. I think you'll like them better." Smiling softly, as much as he ever did, he placed a few prawns on her plate. Aerith picked up her fork and looked at them with some trepidation. She prodded at them with one thin tine, looking warily at their beady black eyes and bristly antennae. She tapped at a hard red carapace, unsure of where to begin.

"You only eat the tail," he offered. "They've already taken the shell on that part off. This sauce goes with it."

He picked up her knife and cut the prawn in two, dipped the tail into the sauce with his fork and offered it to her. Aerith sniffed at it, then bit cautiously, chewed. She ate the remainder then handed his fork back to him, nodding.

"It's not bad. The texture is kind of strange." Aerith tried another one, looking thoughtful. She finished the two that remained on her plate and then went back for seconds, then thirds.

"Apparently a new favorite," Sephiroth said. He felt warm from the wine and the pleasure of being able to give her a new experience, one, he hoped, of many.

Aerith covered her mouth with one hand demurely as she finished chewing, a little embarrassed at her enjoyment being so obvious. "Yes, I guess so. I've found many new favorite things in this place."

"You like it here, then?"

"Mmm," said Aerith, nodding. Her mouth was full. "Very much. It's like some kind of fabulous dream. I keep expecting to wake up." she said after swallowing. She almost smiled at him; it didn't register fully on her mouth but it did, for a fraction of a second, in her eyes.

Aerith sampled a little of everything on the platter but the oysters, which she said reminded her too much of the little grey slimes that had continually plagued life in the slums.

"I hated those horrible things," she said. "They got into everything if you weren't careful. They stung, too, if they touched your skin. You had to be sure to shake out your shoes in the morning, and not put your hands into dark places where you couldn't see what you were touching." Aerith sipped the champagne the servants had brought her, wrinkling her nose at the bubbles. This too was a new thing, and one she liked immensely. She downed nearly half her glass in just a few sips, feeling it go straight to her head. A wistful look passed over her face.

"My foster mother had wanted to make a cake for my birthday once, and had saved up the flour, only the slimes had gotten into it. She opened the canister and it was completely full of them! They had eaten every last grain. And then reproduced. She was so furious, she threw the whole thing right out the window. I think it was the only time I heard her swear. She was so embarrassed that I had heard her she apologized for weeks afterward." Aerith laughed quietly, her smile slowly turning to pain. "She was so funny sometimes."

Sephiroth nodded, listening. Perhaps it was good for her, to unpack all these memories for him to hold. He wasn't sure how much she had ever really shared with anyone. For all her sunshine, she seemed like she had always held a lot to herself.

The servants cleared the table and brought the second course, a creamy asparagus soup, and after, the third, a filet of venison with cherries and a rich sauce. Aerith told him stories of her foster mother, the mischievous pranks she used to play on the boys in the slums. The wine made it easy to talk. Their champagne flutes vanished and were replaced with round balloon glasses. The sommelier, a neatly dressed man with salt and pepper sideburns, poured them each a glass of deep red wine, espousing the virtues of that particular vintage in excessively flowery language. He bowed with a flourish, left the bottle on the table, then was gone.

"Did you get my note?" Sephiroth asked, after he'd left. She hadn't yet mentioned it. He was careful to keep his eyes either locked on her own, on his plate, or out at the night sky around them. He could not look at her too long. The pearly sheen of her shoulders and neck, made even lovelier in the gold candlelight, made him extremely uncomfortable. He could still remember how their soft curves fit under his hands, their downy smoothness sliding up against his palms, the warmth and scent of her skin. Now that he was in a safe place, with food and shelter a given, it was all he could think about, that small moment of pleasure he had had with her. He liked to think that it was mutual, even though she didn't remember it.

"Yes, I did. Thank you. I sent the fragments of the Tears to the jewelers to be cut and set into a necklace." She was silent for a moment, reflecting. "Celeste suggested it. I suppose that's a pretty vain thing to do."

"Not at all." Sephiroth said, skewering a brussel sprout with his fork. There had been nothing left when Jani was taken, not a single bobby pin, not a scrap of paper. He wondered how much of a difference it would have made to him then if he had had something to hold on to. "It will keep them close," he added thoughtfully.

Aeriths' heart swelled with gratitude. He meant her people. Even if only vaguely, it seemed he understood the connection she needed, what the artifact had meant to her. It was an intuition she did not think he was capable of and it startled her. Perhaps she had judged him too harshly. Perhaps she had been wrong, completely wrong, about a lot of things.

"Yes," she said. "I hope it helps me hear them again. I only heard them that one time, after the Tears, and then again, when I woke up in the shipping container." She shook her head. "That feels so long ago now, like it never even happened."

"What did they say to you, that last time?" Sephiroth asked gently.

Aerith sighed. "Ah, it's a long story…" She looked up, at the stars glittering through the glass roof. "This is so beautiful, to have this wonderful meal here with you, in this place, on this night. I don't want to ruin it."

"If you insist." Sephiroth set his knife and fork down side by side on his empty plate for the servants to take. "I won't force you to tell me."

Aerith looked down and pursed her lips. She was so tired, of carrying it on and on, all by herself.

"I know," she said, her lashes still downcast. "But… I will. You should know."

She snuck a glance at him, sleek and elegant in his dark, high collared jacket. He held his silver fork gracefully in his long fingers, his body tense and aware. She remembered the way he had looked up at her, after she had touched him with the flat of his sword, back at their home under the Crater. There had been no malice, not even then, nothing but openness and a calm resignation. He was not her adversary, at least he no longer was; he regarded her as an equal.

Aerith struggled against the tethers of her own reservations. Hadn't all he had done since their rebirth proven he was worthy of her trust? He had brought her the Tears, saved her life, done everything he could to keep her safe. After it all he had brought them here, to this palace in the sky. What more could she demand? Aerith swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. If he had ever been cruel, she had repaid it a thousand times over, with her coldness and her silence. He deserved to know. At least that much. Her heart racing, she began to tell her story.

She told him everything her people had ever said to her, about the gnawing of the Gate, what they knew about him, about the battle they were fighting that she didn't really understand. Dessert came as she came to the end of what she knew.

"You see, it doesn't really make much sense to me," Aerith said. She shrugged as she spooned up a piece of her Île flottante and chased it around her plate, soaking up the vanilla sauce in the fluffy meringue. "I don't know what they mean when they said we are to purify ourselves."

"Perhaps it will be clearer once we get there. It does no good to worry about it now."

"Perhaps." Aerith plucked a stray piece of praline off her plate and crumbled it into bits, then poked them with her fork. She sighed. Aerith held her thought as the servants entered and removed their dessert dishes, leaving behind a decanter of sherry and a platter of fruits, nuts, and sweetmeats.

"It's so hard," she continued, nibbling on an almond stuffed date. "It's as if I'm a stranger to my own people, my own culture. Like I should somehow know what to do. And I'm all they have to depend on, unfortunately. "

"You discredit yourself." He smiled. "You've always been stronger than you think."

"Maybe. One way or the other we'll find out. It's just so much…"

"I'll still be with you," he said, simply. "And I will fight, if you need me to. Just as I promised. It hasn't changed my mind, knowing all this."

Her eyes were on him now, deep and soulful. As intimate as any touch, her gaze opened him, licking his heart and setting it aflame. He surrendered to it helplessly, like flesh surrenders to the knife.

"You know it all, now," she said, not understanding why she was suddenly nervous in his presence, why it was difficult to breathe. She realized with a shock that he knew more about her and her past and who she was than any other person on the face of the Planet ever had. Zack had always been more interested in the here and now than delving into anything too dark and mysterious. Cloud had been too fragile to burden. The others, even Tifa and her foster mother, had known only pieces. It was the height of irony that the only chance she'd ever had to be completely known by someone was after her death, with the same man who had put the sword in her back.

From the other room, the clock chimed half past eleven.

"Is it really that late?" Aerith said quietly after it had finished, breaking the spell. She drooped in her chair, her cheeks flushed from the wine. "No wonder I feel so tired."

"Perhaps I should take you to bed," Sephiroth said.

He immediately cursed his regrettably obvious choice of words. Aerith was drowsily staring off into space and, mercifully, didn't seem to notice. He could pretend he didn't want her with every fiber of his being. He got to his feet and held out his arm. She took it gratefully and rose, her skirts shushing over the marble floor. As they walked down the hall he was intensely conscious of the weight and pressure of her hand clasped on his arm, as if it radiated electricity through the thick cloth of his jacket into his skin.

Sephiroth led her as far as the archway that lead into the main bedroom but would go no further. The rich bed loomed before him, the covers turned down, the nexus point for pleasure in a room expressly designed for it.

"I don't know why they keep doing this every time I get up." Aerith said. She released herself from his arm and, to his horror, strode directly towards the bed, plucking a piece of foil wrapped chocolate from the pillow. "Chocolate is the last thing I want to eat right before I go to bed."

She turned and held it out to him. "Do you want it?"

Sephiroth remained exactly where he was, perched on the threshold of the room. He might as well been carven out of stone. "No, thank you." She placed the chocolate in the drawer of the nightstand, which was already nearly full. Sephiroth saw a chance for a graceful exit. He took a step back, pivoting slightly on his heels. "I should leave you now."

"Will you?" Her eyes stopped him. She seemed disappointed, a little hurt. Aerith leaned against the edge of the bed, facing him. She let one of her jeweled slippers drop off her foot to the carpet below, then kicked off the other.

"I can't stay with you anymore," Sephiroth said pointedly. He found it impossible that she could miss him, the first day in seven months that she woke up alone.

"Why not?" Aerith asked, her eyes wide and innocent.

Sephiroth stared at her, his heart pounding madly. He hated himself. Was it not obvious, was it not bleeding from every pore, what he felt for her? He was keyed up and reckless, teetering on the edge of saying or doing something he would surely regret.

"Things are different now that we're here. We're not in the wilds. It's not…necessary for us to stay together. You hardly need me for warmth," he said, hoping she would understand what he was driving at without having to be explicit. "I'll be in the blue room, the one next to the library," he added, to give her the comfort of at least knowing where he was, should she need him.

Aerith looked away sadly and seemed deep in thought. She pulled the horn hairpin from her hair and held it in her hands, running her thumbs over the smooth bumps of the rubies.

The dress she was wearing was a little too big for her, a fact of which Sephiroth wished he was unaware. The shoulder of it had slipped when she had leaned against the bed, showing the edge of a rose colored satin strap, the soft crease of flesh where her arm met the small swell of her breast. Seeing it made him crave to know its texture, to know the taste of her skin, how much she would like it if he kissed her there.

A tense silence rose up between them as he waited for her to answer. It was unbearable as it mounted, second by tremulous second.

"I know, that's true, but couldn't you stay, just for a little while?" Aerith said at last.

Sephiroths' patience reached its limit. Hadn't he made himself clear? She had no idea what she was asking of him or what it cost.

Careless, made overbold by the wine and the late hour, he went immediately for the throat of the issue, if only to end the torment of withholding it. He closed the distance between them, standing as near her as he dared. He enjoyed watching her tense as he towered over her, the sleek silver curtain of his hair brushing against her as he leaned in. If she wanted him close, she would have it. Nonetheless, he kept his hands clasped rigidly behind his back, his fingers locked into each other.

"What would you like me to be to you, now, Aerith? Shall we be lovers?" he said, his voice dark and rich with desire. "Is that what you want? Is that why you want me here? Or do you like me better when I'm merely your stuffed animal?"

She closed her eyes for a moment and he watched her stifle an involuntary shiver. Her breath was heaving in her chest, but if it was from fear, anger, or revulsion, he wasn't sure. A thought flashed through him, sent from somewhere in his more rational mind: _You've scorched the earth now, you fool. Pay close attention. You might avoid salting it as well. _

Aerith seemed to have recovered her strength. Her eyes bored into him, deep and burning, but he could not tell if the power of her stare was meant to draw him closer or keep him at bay.

"No," she said breathlessly, her voice wavering. The second Aerith said it she knew it wasn't true. She was suddenly confused, wasn't sure what she felt, or what she wanted, or what was right for her to have. "I don't know," she added.

"Then perhaps we should say good night." Sephiroth said, more cruelly than he wanted. He withdrew to the archway and turned so that she could only see him in profile. Already the guilt was slithering in.

"Thank you for joining me for dinner," he said over his shoulder. Sephiroth pursed his lips. His gratitude, as genuine as it was, wouldn't matter to her now. Nothing would. He had just tipped his hand and she would never see him the same way again. "I just…I can't stay with you. Not as we were." It was as close to an explanation as he could manage under the circumstances. He had to get away from her now, before he said or did anything more he would regret.

"Good night, then," she said.

"Good night." Sephiroth stalked away. A few seconds later Aerith heard him shut the door to his room with a bang.


	34. Chapter 34

His heart was squeezing in his throat, beating much too fast. Breathless and unnerved, Sephiroth crushed his back against the door of his room. He stood in the dark, willing himself to be calm. How had he been taught, to breathe through intense pain? In through his nose, down into his belly, and out through his mouth, repeat, repeat. A glimmer of silver light filtered through the high windows, shifting with the aurora. As long minutes passed he watched it unfold on the carpet before him like a vaporous flower, slowly fade, then vanish.

He waited. Breathed deep. Still his heart raced. Not knowing what else to do, he let himself crumple to the floor, his long legs folding like the blades of a jackknife. The high points of the carvedwork on the door bit into him, but he barely felt it. Completely outside his control, his mind was a burning field, consumed with what he had just experienced. Desperate to understand what he was feeling, he played his interaction with Aerith over and over, pulling it apart to analyze it in every excruciating detail.

Again her eyes looked into his own, her pupils sliding open as he took the last step that closed the distance between them. He had been close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her skin and smell the wine and almonds on her breath. He heard himself speak; he was alive and powerful, the strength of his desire rippling up from his core.

Aeriths' lips parted, just a little, a blush spreading across her chest and up her throat. She shut her eyes against him and shivered, her exhalation stuttering. The subtleness of her quivering breath, just audible, thrilled him beyond measure. Her eyes opened again, large and soft, and she denied him with a word. But it was not a complete denial. Confusion and uncertainty were in her shifted glance, the way she leaned toward him but turned her head away. She wasn't sure. There was a chance. Sephiroth stared into the darkness of his room, his eyes blind but his body lit with electricity.

Everything hinged on this, this equivocation. That is, if he assumed it was true and not just something she had said because he had made her uncomfortable. He considered this. There was enough room to allow for a multitude of gorgeous and terrifying possibilities.

Sephiroth gripped his knees. Her eyes and being had utterly stripped him, torn off his skin and thrown it away. The merest current of air; a look, a glance from her, was like a searing brand. He was far beyond the limits of his experience now, with no tether, no training to guide him.

Warm and clear, he heard Aeriths' voice speaking in his mind, relating everything she had shared with him, word by shyly chosen word. Something within her was shifting, he could feel it. She had shared so much of herself with him tonight, trusting that he would hold her secrets without judging them, with no judgement for withholding them for so long. The fact of this should have been enough. It was more than he deserved. But he was not a man to do anything by halves.

Greedily, slavishly, he wanted more, for it to go on and on, to open, broaden, deepen, until he possessed everything of what she was, and she possessed all of him. His thoughts ravened. He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. It hurt yet was sweeter than he ever thought possible, this strange mixture of terror and fascination and desire. It was thrilling to discover that he was capable of it. He was human after all, at least human enough that he could feel these things. Not that he might have the chance to explore it. Not that he really had a right to. His thoughts shifted darkly as he considered the propriety of it all. How could put any claims upon her, or anyone, for that matter? What could he offer? Scowling sadly, he stared up into the shadowy recesses of the coffered ceiling. Perhaps it was not meant for him, to be able to love anyone, not in this life. He would consider it penance, and it would be just.

Sephiroth sighed, frustrated. He couldn't help it, his body still ached for her. He drew his knees to his chest and clasped his arms tightly around them, trying to contain it. Shame rose up in waves. Unbidden he saw Hojo looming before him, his smile full of teeth and sly contempt. His thready voice unspooled in his ears, mocking him from beyond death: _Ah, how charming, you have at last discovered what you are_. _Did you forget what I told you, think you were some kind of exception? We are male, and we will always have our tendencies_. _The sooner you accept this, the easier it will be for you._ The ghost scoffed at him. _What are you waiting for?_ _They're only women._ _Just take what you want._ Hojos' half-remembered laugh slithered into his bones and stuck there, leaching slow poison.

Sephiroth raked his hands through his hair. He remembered Jani's red weeping eyes, her broken, bitten, skin and trembled, feeling sick. He wasn't his fathers' son. Not in that way. He refused to believe it. It couldn't be inevitable, couldn't be the truth. Uneasily, he set a counterargument to the ghost in his head. We're the same only in that we desire, he thought. That in and of itself can't be wrong. There had to be a way where it couldn't be wrong. Perhaps he could find it. He took a shallow breath. Perhaps he was only fooling himself.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he tapped his head against the door, once, twice, as if that would beat in some sense. Even now, after all they had been through together, it was still him alone in his room, Aerith in hers down the hall. There was no resolution he could think of, none that ended happily. It was absolutely unbearable.

In a single decisive movement, Sephiroth got to his feet. Enough, he decreed to himself. Even if he didn't understand what he was going through, couldn't resolve or change it, this weakness did not become him. He would not allow it to continue to keep him here, cowering on the floor like some lost thing.

His face like stone, Sephiroth strode across the dark expanse of his room to the balcony. He flung open the doors, snapping them smartly closed behind him, and paced out into the inky night. The thick frost crunched under his feet, the cold knifing instantly through his dress jacket. The bracing air was like a tonic. He gripped the railing of the balcony, feeling the ice crystals bristle and burn under his hands. The way it hurt centered him. Physical pain was at least something that was understandable, something he could manage.

He looked out across the frozen plain. The midnight sky had become turbulent, a line of menacing clouds marching in from the east. The wind slid through the smooth cords of his hair with icy fingers, lifted it, then let it drop against his back. He took a deep breath and released the railing, flexed his hands. The tremor in them was almost gone.

Subtle pressures in the atmosphere were shifting around and above him, he could feel them sliding past each other. The storm would be a bad one when it came in a day or two. Crossing his arms across his chest, Sephiroth paced, away from the edge of the balcony and back again. He shivered; his exposed skin was searing, but he was glad to be out in the open. His mind slowly formed a plan of action. It was impossible to stay here, restless and seething, with the object of his obsession just a few meters away. He didn't know where he was going, but it didn't matter.

Sephiroth strode down the length of the balcony toward the conservatory. The brisk movement felt good, dispersed some of the tension in his body and gave him something else to focus on. As he rounded the curve of the tower he saw what he had hoped: the glass inside the conservatory was dark. The servants had finished clearing the remains of their meal and extinguished the candles. He would not be met by anyone. Being careful to maintain his silence, Sephiroth let himself inside, the warm air softening in his lungs. There was a service elevator, he knew, hidden discretely in the back corner behind the palms. The servants used it to come and go unseen, as did the gardener. It was an easy way out without having to face Aerith again.

The doors to the elevator read the keycard in his pocket, and slid open at his approach. Sephiroth stepped inside. For a second he stared blankly at the wall, at the thirty seven silver buttons studding the mahogany control panel. Purely arbitrarily, he selected the twenty-third floor and counted off every second it took to descend. The doors slid back on a dimly lit hallway. Wheeled racks of clean dishes and linens lined either side, their chrome reflecting off the scarred rubber tile. Sephiroth chose a direction and tried the first door he came to. It opened into an empty ballroom, dark except for the red glow of the exit lights. Furtively, his footfalls echoing, he stole across the wide expanse of glossy parquet, uneasy with the darkness in the huge open space. It was a relief when he slid out into the hall, the sudden brightness stinging his eyes. A collection of gilt furniture was arranged in an oval sitting area around him, with the usual palms and frippery. Corridors went off in either direction. He chose one of them and continued on, walking as briskly as he dared.

No matter how quick his pace, thoughts of Aerith intruded mercilessly. The curve of her mouth tortured him, how it had pressed lightly against the edge of her champagne flute. Then came the flutter of her laughter as the bubbles tickled her nose. Her smile and the joy in her eyes had truly been for him, all for him, he realized, but it hurt too much to dwell on this for long. With a massive force of will, he wrenched himself away from these thoughts, forcing his awareness outward to engage his surroundings. He turned only to the immediate here and now, focusing in on every detail as it presented itself.

Gradually he settled in to work as he had while under ShinRas' command; mechanically, not thinking, not feeling, until he was once again a machine of pure sense. The environment passed into and through him and he absorbed it all, seizing upon the most meaningless minutiae until he was calm and numb. He analyzed the tactically superior position in every space, memorized the faces and gait patterns of the staff and guests as he passed them, counted light fixtures, the number of times the carpet pattern repeated on the floor relative to the square footage.

Two entire floors down and as many hours but it seemed he never left the same paneled hallway, lit by the same silk shaded sconces, lined with the same brass fitted doors. It wasn't nearly enough to keep his mind occupied. Sephiroth found the emergency stairwell and started climbing, as fast as he could, until the stairs ended somewhere on the thirty fifth floor. Expecting nothing but the exhaust vents for the HVAC system, the plumbing chase, or one of yet another supply locker stacked with towels and toilet paper, he slipped through the door to the space beyond.

Soft wool carpet yielded under his boots. He was wrong. A plush foyer opened around him, sleek and modern. He had come up through the emergency exit, which was screened from the main room by a lacquered bamboo lattice. Music, electronic with a throbbing downtempo beat floated in the air, shocking after the endless silences of the carpeted hallways. A black slate fountain burbled on the far wall between a pair of elevators, adding its own subtle patter to the hypnotic soundtrack. Gold torchieres splashed white light in the corners of the room but the rest was bathed in blue and purple. As he took a moment to evaluate his position the color of the light began to shift. It was almost imperceptible at first, warming slowly to blood red, blooming to sunset orange, turning gold, then gradually cycling back down through the rainbow.

In the face of this unexpected novelty, Sephiroth felt his discipline begin to waver. His wiser mind suggested that he should keep moving and disappear back the way he had come but the music held him still. After so many years of hearing only the natural sounds of wind and water it satisfied him in a way he didn't quite understand. When was the last time he had heard any, in any lifetime he could think of? He couldn't even remember.

The song was coming from an impressively draped doorway that was opposite the elevators. A pair of weathered stone lions stood snarling on either side of it, looking as if they had been dragged fresh from the feet of some battlescarred Wutainese temple. A bouncer in a white suit paced impatiently in the space between them, bulky and overtan. Sephiroth watched the man stop, rock slightly forward and backward on his heels, adjust his mirrored sunglasses, look impatiently at his watch, then begin to pace again.

Sephiroth stepped out from behind the lattice and strode out into the room, compulsively straightening his silver cufflinks though he knew that they were already perfect. The bouncer studied him carefully as he approached. Even though his eyes were hidden it was clear he was suspicious and wondering why he had come up through the stairwell and not through the elevators like the rest of the guests. The man shifted uncomfortably and folded his arms across his chest, his suit jacket pulling too tight over his enormous biceps. He wasn't quite as tall as Sephiroth, but his shoulders were twice as broad.

"This is the executive lounge, sir. It's only open to those who are rooming on floors twenty-eight and above." The mans' voice was deep but twanged with a rough Junon accent. He pulled a small device from his pocket. "May I see your keycard?"

"Certainly." Sephiroth plucked the thin platinum wafer out of the inside pocket of his jacket and held it up for the bouncer to see, pinched neatly between his index and middle fingers.

The device vanished back into the bouncers' pocket. If he was surprised, seeing the keycard from the Shinra suite, he hid it well. He managed an apologetic half-bow. "I'm very sorry sir, there's no need for a scan." he said. In a movement considerably more graceful than would have been guessed from a man of his mass, he swept the curtain aside and gestured courteously for him to pass through. "Please enjoy your evening."

The heavy curtain swished closed behind him, brushing against the heels of his boots. The lounge was larger inside than he expected, with the same gradually shifting lights as the foyer.

Textured silk pillowed the walls. The bar and tables were made of an ice-white stone that glowed, lit from within. The shifting lights and the fine haze of clove and cigarette smoke made everything seem like a dream, like some strange space where the rules of reality were suspended. Sephiroth liked it immediately. He approached the bar and slid onto a black leather seat. A drink was the last thing he wanted, but it would give him an excuse to linger. The music enveloped him like a warm bath, letting his mind expand and idle without chewing itself to pieces.

The bartender approached, red haired, impeccably dressed.

"Good evening sir, what may I get for you?"

He hadn't considered it. It really didn't matter. "Something local."

"Do you prefer spirits, beer, or cider?"

"Spirits. "

"I'll see what I can do."

As he waited for his drink Sephiroth scanned his surroundings , using the mirror on the back of the bar to give him a clear line of sight without making it obvious. The lounge was lightly populated, as would be expected given this time of night, in the middle of a week. A large group of businessmen, flush with expense account money and drinking heavily, were having a lively argument in the banquette to his right. Young nouveau riche loitered in groups and pairs. Two women were seated behind him in the shadows of the lounge, smoking and engaged in what seemed to be an intimate conversation. He tried not to watch them, and instead ran his eyes over the labels of the liquor bottles on the back of the bar.

The bartender approached. With a flourish, he laid down a stiffly starch napkin and placed a highball glass on top of it, half full of ice and a clear liquid. A candied frostbloom petal perched on its rim, slowly weeping its blue essence into the drink.

"Here you are, sir, Iceberry gin. Exclusive to the Great Glacier, and never exported. " The bartender swept the bottle down from the rack and proudly showed him the label. "I can have some sent up to your room if it's to your liking. Just let me know."

Sephiroth nodded his thanks and sipped. The drink was sharp and herbal and scalded his throat all the way down, leaving a tingling sensation on his palate. He finished it slowly, then ordered another one. Exhausted from the ordeals of the day, the cumulative measure of alcohol in his blood mounting, he immersed himself deeper in the flow of the music. It had quickened its beat and a throaty male vocalist began to croon, weaving his voice in and out of the soaring synthesizers.

Sephiroths' eyes were drawn again to the women behind him. He shouldn't look at them, he knew. It was playing with fire, with forces he didn't understand.

They had ordered drinks as well, something in tall martini glasses. One was a bleachwhite blonde in a pale dress, glittery and button-cute. She was too young to be really interesting. The other was slightly older, with straight black hair cut sharply at her jaw. Her eyes were deeply shadowed and silvered, her mouth lacquered red. Sephiroth watched her pick up her glass, drink, her cigarette spooling a slender plume of smoke into the air. There was an uncanny awareness present in her body; she moved sensuously, but her sloe dark eyes were hard, ruthlessly appraising. She said something to her blonde friend, who raised an eyebrow and smirked. The dark haired woman ran her eyes over him. She took no pains to hide it, taking a deep drag on her cigarette.

Sephiroth glanced back at her, seemingly drawn against his will. It was a mistake. Their eyes met, locked together in the mirrors' reflection. The woman smiled cruelly, and, to his horror, began to slowly get to her feet. The sequins on her tight black dress glittered like the skin of a snake as she moved, flashing red in the shifting light. Heat rushed to Sephiroths' face and poured down the front of his body, centering in his groin.

He swallowed painfully, took a burning gulp of his drink. Something inevitable was about to happen, he could feel it. He was about to prove everything that Hojo had ever said, and prove it willingly. If he was truly honest with himself he knew there was a part of him that craved exactly this, to abandon all reason, betray his heart, and bury himself in her like an animal, no matter how much he would despise himself later.

Behind him, the woman finished her cigarette, crushing it out in a crystal ashtray. She placed her handbag on the glowing top of the table and fished inside it, suddenly frowning. She pulled out her PHS. Whatever she read on it pleased her even less. Fixing Sephiroth with a sullen snarl of missed opportunity, she tipped the remnants of her drink down her throat, turned and stalked out, fierce on her five inch heels.

One of the businessmen broke away from his group and sidled up beside the blonde. Sephiroth watched as they began to talk, all tipped back heads and fake laughter. He turned back to his drink. It was still half-full but he only touched the glass, leaving damp fingerprints on its sides. Suddenly the music had lost its appeal.

"Heh. You just dodged a bullet, my friend."

Sephiroth turned toward the voice that was suddenly near at hand, irritated at being disturbed and at the speakers' flagrant overfamiliarity. A man had just put his glass down on the bar and settled into the seat next to him. He appeared to be at least ten years older than he was, but it was hard to tell. Much to Sephiroths' annoyance, he kept talking.

"I've been around here a while. Trust me, that lot isn't worth your time…or your money."

Sephiroth caught his insinuation and suddenly went cold. Disgust settled over him like wet cement as he realized what he had almost been a party to. Behind them, the businessmen and the blonde got up and walked toward the exit, his arm draped loosely around her waist.

The stranger chuckled and shook the ice around in his drink, some kind of brown spirit. "That poor guy has no idea of the fleecing he's in for," he said, fixing Sephiroth with an amused knowing look. The man wore his suit carelessly, with the top button of his shirt undone, without a tie. His shoes were scuffed, more suited to working outdoors than lounging in a nightclub. If he could afford an upper tier room, he certainly didn't look it. The man smiled broadly and stuck out a chapped and weather beaten hand.

"Chase Winterby. Pleased to meet you."

"Darien Crescent." Sephiroth amazed himself at how easily the lie left his mouth; a half lie really. He did not shake the hand offered to him, but tipped his head in acknowledgement so as not to be rude.

"You're new around here, aren't you?" Chase asked

"Yes."

"What brings you to the Inn?" His voice was casual, pretensionless. He was just an average local making conversation and he seemed friendly enough. Sephiroth felt his initial annoyance fade.

"My companion and I just completed a geotechnical survey around the Northern Crater," he replied.

"Geotech, huh? Everyone's trying to jump on that these days. Big money in oil and sapgas, if you can find it where you can get at it. The North Crater ought to be a real treat to tap." He smirked. "Who are you with?" He looked Sephiroth over, as if he were trying to guess.

"One of the larger corporations," Sephiroth said.

"ShinRa, GeoGen, or CorelCo?"

"One of those." He let his vagueness speak for itself. With the fierce competition and widespread corporate espionage he had been reading about in the papers, it would seem reasonable for him not to divulge who he was working for.

"Fair enough." Chase said, nodding slowly. The answer only seemed to half satisfy him but he let it lie.

"What is it that you do?" Sephiroth asked, turning the attention away from himself.

"You _are_ new around here. Chocobo breeding's my game." Chase puffed out his chest, his face expanding into a wide grin. "I'm the sole supplier of the Icicle White, the fastest and toughest birds on the face of the Planet. I mostly sell to the military but the racing circuit is starting to take notice too." He paused, rattled the ice in his drink again, and drank the last of it with obvious pleasure. "I was supposed to meet a potential client here tonight but they never showed. You want to come by and see the stables? I was just heading there anyway and they're not far. This place isn't really my scene. "

Sephiroth pushed his drink away. He had had enough, of everything. "Sure," he said, "Why not."


End file.
